Tings are falling apart in the concluding book of Pullman's latest trilogy, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a world that appears, now more than ever, as a energized and tilted version of our own. Institutions are crumbling, or restructuring themselves along unfamiliar and disquieting lines. An unseen force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "currency is failing, and no one knows why". Control is flowing away from governments, and pooling in the offices of theocrats, the vaults of business empires, the hands of crowds. "Something is at work, stealthily, gradually", says trader a merchant figure, keeping a watchful eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were secure and durable are deteriorating and failing."
The Central Mystery and The Protagonist's Path
Exactly what that element might be, and how to counteract it, is the mystery that drives the concluding book, which continues where The Secret Commonwealth left off. This is, by all accounts, Pullman's concluding foray into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating realm he first introduced in the distant past, with the release of His Dark Materials. It's a realm whose landscape corresponds to that of the real world, but whose history tacks and jibes with ours; where the humans look and reason and behave like us, but are joined by external spirits, beings in creature form; where the skies are teeming with enchantresses and mythical beasts, but below, transports are ridden and tea is sipped, and mature scholars carry luxury shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a young girl in the original trilogy, and then revisited as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the origin story with which the author began The Book of Dust, is now a adult: still recognisably the sharp and tenacious heroine of the prior volumes, but older, melancholic, more cautious, more doubtful. This circumscription is heightened by her separation from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the cause which led him to leave her in the first place.
Merging Narratives
Pan's decision to go off in search of that youthful part of the heroine which she appears to have shed (an trait which he represents as her "creativity"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a adventurous voyage across the continent and into the mountain region, facing with marvel and danger on the way. But from the start, deeper currents were in play, and sinister powers at work. The Magisterium – the church's ruling body, and Pullman's deliciously chilling embodiment of austere, bureaucratic evil – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. Marcel Delamare – Lyra's relative, who blames her for his sibling's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of president of the Magisterium's governing body, and is intent on using his recently acquired authority to expand the institution's rule. Another protagonist, who saved infant the heroine to safety along a flooded river as an 11-year-old in La Belle Sauvage, is now an Oxford don with a additional duty in espionage: he is assigned to the city to find out more about the antagonist's plans. And underlying all of this is the mystery surrounding the scarce and valuable rose oil which seems in some way to be the cause of a social and economic disturbance emanating out from the region. The extract is regarded by certain groups as a marketable commodity, by others as a scientific or esoteric wonder, and by yet others – the extremist "men from the mountains" – as a source of darkness; an challenge that must be eradicated. The question of its source, what it stands for, and whether it should be destroyed or preserved is escalating in importance.
Similar to His Dark Materials, our protagonist's decisions, and her fate, are demonstrated to be inseparably linked with the future of the universe
In the previous volume, these narratives ran largely in parallel. In The Rose Field, they converge. As in the first trilogy, Lyra's movements and her fate are shown to be inseparably linked with the destiny of the universe. Her individual journey to reconnect with her soul and rediscover her creativity becomes the primary conflict in a larger war with an authoritarian government which, as such authorities often attempt, is striving to stifle independence of reason, creativity and culture: all the internal, rebellious ways in which humans can be independent.
Atmospheric Fissures and Philosophical Struggles
The story opens with the finding of a set of unusual cracks in the fabric of the Earth's atmosphere: windows that seem to open into different dimensions. An example of a window manifests to be the origin of the much debated mystical extract. The church, with the antagonist at its helm, classifies these windows as a threat to the institution's beliefs and endeavors to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to shift from strict logic and return to instinct, yet, her certainty that these places must be preserved – that what they stand for and their value is mysteriously crucial – increases. "Dust, or rose oil, or the imagination, or the field of roses, or whatever we call it," she says, "we need it." The setting for a Blakean tussle between naivety and knowledge is set.
Plot Rhythm and Protagonist Growth
At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the
