Tings are falling apart in the concluding book of The Dust Trilogy, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that manifests, here more than ever, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Establishments are weakening, or reorganizing themselves along unfamiliar and disturbing lines. An hidden force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Authority is shifting from authorities, and accumulating in the halls of theocrats, the vaults of corporations, the grasp of rioters. "An element is at work, very quietly, imperceptibly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the Silk Roads from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were firm and solid are weakening and failing."
Key Puzzle and The Protagonist's Path
Precisely what that element might be, and how to counteract it, is the mystery that drives this final volume, which continues where the previous book concluded. This is, by all accounts, the author's final foray into the intricately constructed, deeply captivating universe he first unveiled in the distant past, with the release of Northern Lights. It's a realm whose terrain aligns with that of the real world, but whose chronicles tacks and jibes with ours; where the individuals appear and think and behave like us, but are accompanied by daemons, beings in creature form; where the heavens are filled with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but underneath, vehicles are ridden and beverages is sipped, and mature academics carry Harrods shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the first trilogy, and then met once more as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still distinctly the sharp and determined heroine of the earlier books, but older, more sorrowful, warier, less certain. This restraint is heightened by her division from her daemon, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to depart in quest of that youthful part of her which she appears to have shed (an aspect which he symbolizes as her "vision"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the driving forces of its predecessor, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a picaresque trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, encountering with marvel and danger on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in motion, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the faith's governing authority, and the author's brilliantly sinister embodiment of rigid, administrative evil – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. The antagonist – our protagonist's family member, who holds responsible her for his sister's death – has manoeuvred himself into the position of head of the church's governing body, and is set on using his newfound power to extend the religion's control. A key character, who saved young Lyra to security along a swollen river as an young boy in the first book, is now an university scholar with a additional duty in intelligence work: he is assigned to Geneva to find out more about the antagonist's intentions. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and precious rose oil which manifests somehow to be the source of a social and economic upheaval spreading out from that area. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a tradeable commodity, by different parties as a empirical or mystical phenomenon, and by yet others – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a wellspring of evil; an affront that must be destroyed. The issue of its source, its significance, and if it should be eliminated or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.
Like the original trilogy, our protagonist's actions, and her future, are shown to be inextricably linked with the fate of the world
In its predecessor, these plots ran largely in parallel. In the conclusion, they merge. Like the original series, Lyra's actions and her fate are revealed to be inseparably woven with the fate of the world. Her private mission to rejoin with her daemon and recover her vision becomes the primary struggle in a larger conflict with an controlling government which, as such regimes often attempt, is striving to suppress freedom of thought, originality and culture: all the personal, defiant ways in which individuals can be independent.
Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles
The book starts with the unveiling of a set of curious cracks in the structure of the Earth's sky: portals that seem to lead to different dimensions. An example of a opening appears to be the origin of the fiercely disputed mystical extract. The Magisterium, with the antagonist at its leadership, designates these openings as a problem to the church's doctrine and endeavors to eradicate them. As the heroine begins to move from inflexible logic and back to feeling, yet, her certainty that these sites must be defended – that what they stand for and what they offer is somehow crucial – grows. "The substance, or the extract, or the creativity, or the field of roses, or whatever we call it," she says, "we need it." The setting for a philosophical tussle between purity and maturity is set.
Story Tempo and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
