Tings are unraveling in the final volume of The Dust Trilogy, the next of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a world that seems, in this volume especially, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Establishments are crumbling, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Authority is shifting from authorities, and pooling in the offices of theocrats, the treasuries of corporations, the control of crowds. "Some force is at work, silently, imperceptibly", says trader a merchant figure, keeping a vigilant eye on the Silk Roads from his seat in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were stable and strong are faltering and collapsing."
Core Enigma and Her Quest
Just what that something might be, and ways to oppose it, is the inquiry that propels this final volume, which picks up where its predecessor left off. This is, according to many, the author's final foray into the intricately constructed, endlessly enchanting realm he first revealed 30 years ago, with the publication of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose terrain maps on to that of our world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans appear and think and act like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, essences in creature form; where the heavens are populated with sorceresses and mythical beasts, but underneath, buses are taken and tea is sipped, and middle-aged academics carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first encountered as a child in the original trilogy, and then saw again as a infant in the prequel, the introductory book with which the author began this trilogy, is now a adult: still recognisably the sharp and determined heroine of the previous installments, but more mature, more sorrowful, more cautious, less sure. This restraint is intensified by her separation from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, paradoxically, the trigger which made him desert her in the first place.
Converging Storylines
The daemon's resolve to go off in search of that youthful part of Lyra which she may have forgotten (an aspect which he epitomises as her "creativity"), and her journey to reconnect with him, were the incitements of the prior book, which saw Lyra undertake a adventurous journey across Europe and into the mountain region, meeting with amazement and peril on the way. But from the start, deeper currents were in action, and malevolent elements at work. The religious council – the faith's controlling power, and Pullman's brilliantly sinister representation of rigid, bureaucratic evil – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. Lyra's uncle – our protagonist's family member, who holds responsible her for his family member's death – has worked himself into the office of president of the church's ruling assembly, and is intent on using his recently acquired influence to broaden the religion's control. Malcolm Polstead, who saved young Lyra to security along a swollen Thames as an 11-year-old in the first book, is now an university scholar with a secondary role in intelligence work: he is assigned to the city to learn more about his plans. And beneath all of this is the mystery surrounding the scarce and costly rose oil which appears in some way to be the cause of a societal and economic crisis emanating out from the region. The extract is viewed by some as a tradeable product, by alternate groups as a empirical or spiritual wonder, and by yet others – the zealous "mountain dwellers" – as a origin of evil; an affront that must be obliterated. The dilemma of its source, its meaning, and whether it should be destroyed or safeguarded is becoming urgent.
Like the first series, our protagonist's deeds, and her future, are shown to be deeply connected with the future of the universe
In The Secret Commonwealth, these storylines ran largely in side by side. In this final book, they merge. As in the first trilogy, the protagonist's choices and her path are revealed to be deeply entwined with the destiny of the universe. Her private mission to reunite with her daemon and rediscover her creativity becomes the primary struggle in a larger conflict with an oppressive regime which, as these systems often attempt, is seeking to quell autonomy of thinking, innovation and art: all the personal, rebellious ways in which people can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Ideological Conflicts
The novel opens with the finding of a set of curious fissures in the fabric of the world's sky: portals that look to give on to other worlds. One such portal seems to be the origin of the highly contested botanical substance. The church, with Delamare at its head, designates these portals as a problem to the institution's doctrine and endeavors to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to shift from rigid rationalism and return to feeling, nevertheless, her belief that these locations must be defended – that their meaning and their value is somehow crucial – strengthens. "The substance, or the extract, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or no matter what we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The scene for a philosophical tussle between naivety and maturity is established.
Plot Rhythm and Personal Evolution
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
