Things are collapsing in the final volume of The Dust Trilogy, the second of the author's grand trilogies set in a world that appears, here more than ever, as a intense and skewed version of our own. Institutions are failing, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Power is shifting from authorities, and pooling in the offices of theocrats, the vaults of business empires, the grasp of mobs. "Some force is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says businessman a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Elements we thought were stable and solid are faltering and collapsing."
Key Puzzle and Her Quest
Exactly what that element might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that propels this final volume, which resumes where its predecessor ended. This is, according to many, the author's last venture into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating realm he first revealed in the distant past, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a world whose geography corresponds to that of this world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the individuals look and think and behave like us, but are joined by animal souls, souls in beast form; where the heavens are populated with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but below, vehicles are taken and tea is consumed, and middle-aged academics carry luxury shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first encountered as a 12-year-old in the original trilogy, and then revisited as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the origin story with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the prickly and tenacious protagonist of the earlier books, but more mature, melancholic, warier, less sure. This limitation is amplified by her division from her daemon, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the cause which caused him to abandon her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to depart in quest of that innocent part of the heroine which she may have forgotten (an aspect which he symbolizes as her "vision"), and her mission to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of The Secret Commonwealth, which followed the protagonist undertake a picaresque journey across Europe and into the mountain region, meeting with amazement and peril on the way. But from the outset, deeper currents were in play, and malevolent elements at work. The religious council – the church's governing authority, and the author's masterfully eerie representation of rigid, bureaucratic wickedness – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's family member, who faults her for his sibling's death – has manoeuvred himself into the position of president of the church's High Council, and is set on using his newfound authority to expand the church's control. A key character, who saved infant Lyra to refuge along a swollen Thames as an 11-year-old in the prequel, is now an academic with a sideline in intelligence work: he is sent to the city to learn more about the antagonist's intentions. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the rare and precious botanical extract which seems in some way to be the source of a social and financial disturbance rippling out from the region. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a tradeable good, by alternate groups as a scientific or spiritual miracle, and by further factions – the extremist "mountain dwellers" – as a wellspring of darkness; an challenge that must be obliterated. The issue of its origins, its meaning, and if it should be eliminated or protected is escalating in importance.
Like the first series, our protagonist's decisions, and her destiny, are shown to be inseparably linked with the future of the realm
In The Secret Commonwealth, these storylines ran largely in parallel. In the conclusion, they come together. Like His Dark Materials, her actions and her fate are shown to be deeply woven with the destiny of the world. Her private journey to reunite with her soul and recover her vision becomes the key conflict in a larger conflict with an oppressive regime which, as such authorities typically do, is attempting to quell freedom of reason, creativity and art: all the internal, rebellious ways in which people can be independent.
Cosmic Openings and Moral Battles
The story opens with the finding of a series of unusual fissures in the fabric of the planet's atmosphere: gateways that look to give on to different dimensions. One such portal seems to be the origin of the highly contested mystical extract. The church, with its leader at its helm, designates these portals as a problem to the religion's beliefs and sets out to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from inflexible logic and back to intuition, however, her conviction that these locations must be defended – that what they stand for and what they offer is in some way crucial – grows. "Dust, or rose oil, or the creativity, or the botanical realm, or whatever we name it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a Blakean conflict between naivety and experience is established.
Story Tempo and Protagonist Growth
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
