Tings are unraveling in the last installment of The Dust Trilogy, the second of the author's masterful trilogies set in a realm that appears, now more than ever, as a energized and skewed version of our own. Establishments are failing, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Power is flowing away from states, and accumulating in the halls of theocrats, the treasuries of business empires, the grasp of crowds. "Something is at work, stealthily, gradually", says merchant a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his post in an city cafe. "Things we thought were secure and strong are faltering and giving way."
Key Puzzle and Lyra's Journey
Exactly what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that animates the concluding book, which continues where the previous book concluded. This is, reportedly, Pullman's final venture into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting world he first introduced in the distant past, with the release of Northern Lights. It's a world whose terrain corresponds to that of our world, but whose chronicles tacks and jibes with ours; where the individuals look and reason and behave like us, but are accompanied by animal souls, essences in beast form; where the heavens are filled with witches and gryphons, but underneath, vehicles are caught and tea is sipped, and mature scholars carry luxury shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a young girl in the original trilogy, and then met once more as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the prequel with which the author began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still distinctly the sharp and persistent main character of the previous installments, but aged, more sorrowful, warier, less sure. This circumscription is amplified by her separation from her animal guide, her daemon – but it was also, paradoxically, the trigger which made him desert her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
Pan's decision to go off in pursuit of that innocent part of her which she seems to have lost (an quality which he represents as her "creativity"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which saw the protagonist undertake a wandering voyage across the continent and into the Caucasus, encountering with wonder and danger on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in play, and darker forces at work. The Magisterium – the church's controlling power, and Pullman's deliciously chilling incarnation of strict, bureaucratic malice – is under recent guidance, and asserting its power. Marcel Delamare – our protagonist's relative, who faults her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the role of head of the church's ruling assembly, and is intent on using his fresh influence to extend the religion's control. Malcolm Polstead, who saved baby the heroine to refuge along a flooded river as an child in the prequel, is now an Oxford don with a additional duty in intelligence work: he is assigned to Geneva to learn more about his intentions. And underlying all of this is the puzzle surrounding the scarce and valuable botanical extract which manifests mysteriously to be the source of a societal and financial crisis emanating out from the region. The substance is seen by various factions as a tradeable good, by different parties as a empirical or spiritual wonder, and by others still – the extremist "men from the mountains" – as a wellspring of malevolence; an affront that must be destroyed. The question of where it comes from, what it stands for, and whether it should be removed or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.
As in the original trilogy, the heroine's decisions, and her destiny, are revealed to be deeply connected with the destiny of the world
In its predecessor, these plots ran broadly in parallel. In the conclusion, they merge. Similar to the original series, Lyra's movements and her path are revealed to be deeply woven with the fate of the universe. Her personal quest to reconnect with her soul and rediscover her creativity becomes the central struggle in a larger conflict with an authoritarian system which, as such regimes typically do, is attempting to quell autonomy of thinking, originality and art: all the personal, resistant ways in which people can be liberated.
Cosmic Openings and Ideological Conflicts
The novel starts with the unveiling of a set of curious cracks in the makeup of the Earth's air: windows that appear to give on to alternate realities. A particular window manifests to be the source of the fiercely disputed rose oil. The authority, with Delamare at its leadership, labels these portals as a challenge to the religion's doctrine and sets out to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from strict reason and back to feeling, yet, her conviction that these places must be defended – that their meaning and what they offer is mysteriously crucial – grows. "Cosmic particles, or the extract, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or whatever we name it," she says, "it is necessary." The setting for a poetic struggle between naivety and experience is set.
Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
