Tings are collapsing in the concluding book of The Dust Trilogy, the second of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a world that appears, in this volume especially, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Institutions are weakening, or restructuring themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An hidden force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; concurrently, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Control is draining from authorities, and accumulating in the chambers of religious leaders, the vaults of business empires, the control of mobs. "Some force is at work, stealthily, imperceptibly", says businessman a trader character, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his place in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were secure and solid are weakening and giving way."
Core Enigma and The Protagonist's Path
Just what that force might be, and ways to oppose it, is the inquiry that drives this final volume, which picks up where The Secret Commonwealth concluded. This is, according to many, Pullman's last foray into the elaborately built, deeply captivating realm he first unveiled in the distant past, with the publication of the first trilogy. It's a realm whose terrain corresponds to that of our world, but whose chronicles diverges and shifts with ours; where the humans appear and think and behave like us, but are paired by daemons, beings in animal form; where the heavens are teeming with witches and mythical beasts, but beneath those skies, buses are caught and tea is consumed, and mature professors carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first encountered as a child in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a infant in the prequel, the introductory book with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a adult: still distinctly the spiky and tenacious main character of the earlier books, but more mature, melancholic, more careful, less sure. This limitation is intensified by her split from her soul companion, her daemon – but it was also, paradoxically, the trigger which led him to leave her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
Pan's decision to go off in quest of that childlike part of her which she appears to have shed (an quality which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the catalysts of The Secret Commonwealth, which followed the protagonist undertake a picaresque trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, encountering with amazement and peril on the way. But from the outset, profound shifts were in motion, and darker forces at work. The Magisterium – the church's controlling power, and the author's deliciously chilling incarnation of rigid, bureaucratic malice – is under new leadership, and asserting its power. Lyra's uncle – Lyra's family member, who blames her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the office of leader of the church's High Council, and is intent on using his newfound power to expand the church's dominium. Malcolm Polstead, who carried young the heroine to refuge along a swollen river as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a secondary role in spycraft: he is assigned to a key location to discover more about the antagonist's plans. And beneath all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and costly rose oil which appears somehow to be the origin of a social and financial upheaval rippling out from Central Asia. The oil is regarded by some as a commercial commodity, by others as a scientific or spiritual phenomenon, and by further factions – the fanatical "highland figures" – as a origin of darkness; an challenge that must be destroyed. The question of where it comes from, its significance, and whether it should be destroyed or safeguarded is becoming urgent.
Similar to His Dark Materials, the heroine's deeds, and her fate, are shown to be inextricably connected with the future of the world
In its predecessor, these plots ran broadly in parallel. In the conclusion, they come together. Similar to the first trilogy, the protagonist's choices and her path are revealed to be deeply linked with the destiny of the universe. Her personal journey to reconnect with her soul and rediscover her creativity becomes the primary battleground in a larger war with an authoritarian system which, as these systems always have, is attempting to quell autonomy of thought, creativity and expression: all the personal, rebellious ways in which humans can be independent.
Dimensional Rifts and Moral Battles
The novel starts with the discovery of a collection of strange cracks in the fabric of the planet's atmosphere: portals that appear to open into different dimensions. An example of a window seems to be the origin of the fiercely disputed rose oil. The Magisterium, with the antagonist at its leadership, classifies these windows as a threat to the institution's doctrine and endeavors to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to move from inflexible rationalism and return to feeling, yet, her belief that these places must be preserved – that their significance and what they offer is somehow vital – strengthens. "Cosmic particles, or the substance, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or whatever we label it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a Blakean tussle between naivety and knowledge is established.
Story Tempo and Personal Evolution
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
