Tings are unraveling in the final volume of Pullman's latest trilogy, the second of the author's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that seems, now more than ever, as a charged and tilted version of our own. Institutions are failing, or reassembling themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Power is shifting from states, and gathering in the offices of theocrats, the treasuries of corporations, the grasp of mobs. "Something is at work, stealthily, imperceptibly", says merchant a trader character, keeping a vigilant eye on the Silk Roads from his post in an Aleppo cafe. "Aspects we thought were firm and strong are weakening and giving way."
Core Enigma and Her Quest
Exactly what that element might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that animates the concluding book, which continues where its predecessor concluded. This is, according to many, the author's concluding excursion into the elaborately built, endlessly enchanting realm he first introduced in the distant past, with the release of Northern Lights. It's a realm whose terrain maps on to that of our world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans look and reason and behave like us, but are accompanied by animal souls, essences in beast form; where the air are populated with enchantresses and gryphons, but underneath, vehicles are caught and drinks is consumed, and older academics carry luxury shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the original trilogy, and then revisited as a toddler in La Belle Sauvage, the origin story with which the author began the series, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the prickly and tenacious heroine of the prior volumes, but older, sadder, more cautious, more doubtful. This circumscription is amplified by her split from her daemon, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the catalyst which made him desert her in the first place.
Interwoven Plots
His choice to leave in search of that innocent part of Lyra which she may have forgotten (an aspect which he symbolizes as her "creativity"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the incitements of its predecessor, which chronicled Lyra undertake a adventurous journey across Europe and into the mountain region, encountering with marvel and peril on the way. But from the start, deeper currents were in play, and malevolent elements at work. The Magisterium – the faith's governing authority, and Pullman's masterfully eerie representation of rigid, bureaucratic malice – is under new leadership, and asserting its power. The antagonist – Lyra's uncle, who blames her for his sibling's death – has positioned himself into the position of president of the church's High Council, and is intent on using his newfound influence to broaden the church's rule. Another protagonist, who rescued infant the heroine to safety along a swollen Thames as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a sideline in espionage: he is dispatched to Geneva to learn more about Delamare's plans. And behind all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and costly botanical extract which appears in some way to be the source of a societal and economic crisis emanating out from Central Asia. The substance is viewed by certain groups as a marketable good, by others as a scientific or esoteric phenomenon, and by further factions – the extremist "highland figures" – as a source of evil; an affront that must be eradicated. The issue of where it comes from, its significance, and if it should be removed or protected is coming rapidly to the fore.
Similar to His Dark Materials, our protagonist's actions, and her future, are revealed to be inseparably connected with the fate of the world
In its predecessor, these plots ran broadly in side by side. In this final book, they merge. As in the first trilogy, the protagonist's choices and her fate are revealed to be deeply woven with the fate of the world. Her personal journey to reunite with her soul and recover her vision becomes the key struggle in a wider war with an authoritarian regime which, as these systems always have, is seeking to suppress independence of reason, innovation and expression: all the personal, resistant ways in which humans can be free.
Atmospheric Fissures and Ideological Conflicts
The story begins with the finding of a set of unusual fissures in the structure of the world's sky: windows that look to lead to different dimensions. One such opening manifests to be the point of the fiercely disputed rose oil. The authority, with Delamare at its head, labels these portals as a problem to the institution's beliefs and endeavors to destroy them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from strict rationalism and revert to feeling, nevertheless, her certainty that these sites must be preserved – that their meaning and what they offer is in some way crucial – grows. "Dust, or the extract, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or whatever we call it," she says, "it is necessary." The scene for a Blakean tussle between naivety and maturity is established.
Plot Rhythm and Personal Evolution
At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
