Things are collapsing in the concluding book of The Dust Trilogy, the second of the author's grand trilogies set in a realm that appears, here more than ever, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Establishments are crumbling, or reassembling themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Control is shifting from states, and gathering in the halls of religious leaders, the coffers of conglomerates, the grasp of mobs. "An element is at work, very quietly, very subtly", says trader a trader character, keeping a vigilant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an city cafe. "Aspects we thought were stable and durable are faltering and failing."
Core Enigma and The Protagonist's Path
Precisely what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that drives this final volume, which resumes where the previous book ended. This is, reportedly, the author's last venture into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating realm he first unveiled 30 years ago, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose landscape corresponds to that of our world, but whose history veers and changes with ours; where the individuals appear and reason and behave like us, but are paired by daemons, souls in beast form; where the skies are filled with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but below, buses are caught and drinks is drunk, and older academics carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a toddler in the first volume, the origin story with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a adult: still distinctly the sharp and tenacious heroine of the earlier books, but more mature, more sorrowful, more cautious, less sure. This limitation is heightened by her separation from her soul companion, her daemon – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
His choice to depart in quest of that childlike part of the heroine which she may have forgotten (an quality which he represents as her "imagination"), and her journey to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which followed the protagonist undertake a adventurous journey across Europe and into the mountain region, encountering with amazement and risk on the way. But from the beginning, underlying forces were in play, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the faith's ruling body, and the author's masterfully eerie embodiment of austere, administrative wickedness – is under fresh command, and flexing its muscles. Lyra's uncle – the heroine's family member, who faults her for his sibling's death – has manoeuvred himself into the position of president of the church's governing body, and is intent on using his newfound authority to broaden the religion's control. A key character, who carried infant Lyra to security along a swollen river as an young boy in the first book, is now an academic with a additional duty in spycraft: he is sent to a key location to discover more about his plans. And beneath all of this is the puzzle surrounding the rare and valuable essential oil which appears mysteriously to be the source of a social and financial crisis emanating out from Central Asia. The substance is viewed by various factions as a tradeable product, by different parties as a research-based or esoteric phenomenon, and by further factions – the extremist "highland figures" – as a source of malevolence; an insult that must be destroyed. The issue of its origins, its meaning, and if it should be destroyed or protected is escalating in importance.
As in His Dark Materials, Lyra's decisions, and her future, are revealed to be deeply connected with the future of the realm
In its predecessor, these storylines ran broadly in side by side. In The Rose Field, they converge. Similar to the first trilogy, the protagonist's choices and her path are unveiled to be inseparably linked with the fate of the realm. Her private quest to rejoin with her soul and regain her vision becomes the primary battleground in a wider war with an controlling regime which, as these systems often attempt, is striving to suppress autonomy of reason, innovation and culture: all the internal, defiant ways in which individuals can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles
The novel begins with the discovery of a collection of unusual cracks in the structure of the planet's air: gateways that seem to give on to other worlds. A particular window manifests to be the point of the much debated rose oil. The church, with the antagonist at its head, labels these openings as a threat to the institution's doctrine and endeavors to eradicate them. As Lyra begins to turn away from inflexible rationalism and revert to feeling, nevertheless, her belief that these places must be defended – that what they stand for and what they provide is somehow crucial – strengthens. "The substance, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The scene for a philosophical struggle between naivety and experience is set.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
