Tings are collapsing in the final volume of Pullman's latest trilogy, the next of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that seems, now more than ever, as a charged and tilted version of our own. Institutions are weakening, or reassembling themselves along unfamiliar and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Control is draining from authorities, and gathering in the chambers of religious leaders, the coffers of corporations, the grasp of crowds. "Some force is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says merchant Mustafa Bey, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his place in an Aleppo cafe. "Elements we thought were firm and durable are faltering and giving way."
The Central Mystery and Lyra's Journey
Precisely what that something might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that animates this final volume, which resumes where the previous book concluded. This is, according to many, Pullman's last venture into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting world he first introduced three decades past, with the release of Northern Lights. It's a world whose geography aligns with that of the real world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the people look and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by daemons, souls in beast form; where the air are filled with enchantresses and gryphons, but beneath those skies, buses are ridden and tea is sipped, and middle-aged professors carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first met as a 12-year-old in the original trilogy, and then met once more as a baby in La Belle Sauvage, the origin story with which Pullman began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still distinctly the spiky and tenacious main character of the previous installments, but more mature, melancholic, more careful, less certain. This circumscription is heightened by her separation from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the cause which made him desert her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
Pan's decision to depart in quest of that youthful part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an aspect which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the incitements of The Secret Commonwealth, which saw Lyra undertake a wandering trek across Europe and into the mountain region, facing with wonder and peril on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in action, and malevolent elements at work. The Magisterium – the faith's ruling body, and the author's brilliantly sinister embodiment of rigid, bureaucratic evil – is under new leadership, and showing its strength. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's relative, who holds responsible her for his family member's death – has positioned himself into the position of leader of the Magisterium's High Council, and is determined on using his fresh power to extend the church's control. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued infant the heroine to refuge along a flooded Thames as an 11-year-old in the first book, is now an Oxford don with a sideline in intelligence work: he is sent to the city to find out more about the antagonist's aims. And behind all of this is the enigma surrounding the scarce and valuable essential oil which seems in some way to be the cause of a societal and economic upheaval emanating out from that area. The substance is regarded by certain groups as a tradeable product, by others as a scientific or mystical wonder, and by others still – the fanatical "men from the mountains" – as a wellspring of evil; an affront that must be destroyed. The dilemma of where it comes from, what it stands for, and whether it should be removed or protected is coming rapidly to the fore.
As in the original trilogy, the heroine's deeds, and her future, are shown to be deeply connected with the destiny of the realm
In The Secret Commonwealth, these narratives ran largely in tandem. In the conclusion, they merge. Like the first trilogy, Lyra's actions and her path are shown to be inextricably woven with the future of the universe. Her personal quest to reunite with her soul and rediscover her imagination becomes the key struggle in a larger battle with an authoritarian regime which, as such authorities typically do, is striving to stifle autonomy of thought, originality and culture: all the inner, defiant ways in which individuals can be independent.
Dimensional Rifts and Ideological Conflicts
The novel begins with the unveiling of a collection of strange fissures in the fabric of the planet's atmosphere: gateways that look to give on to alternate realities. One such window appears to be the origin of the highly contested botanical substance. The Magisterium, with its leader at its helm, labels these windows as a challenge to the church's beliefs and sets out to eradicate them. As the heroine begins to shift from inflexible reason and back to intuition, nevertheless, her conviction that these sites must be defended – that their meaning and what they offer is in some way crucial – increases. "Cosmic particles, or rose oil, or the vision, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we call it," she says, "we need it." The stage for a poetic conflict between purity and knowledge is prepared.
Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
