Tings are unraveling in the final volume of Pullman's latest trilogy, the second of Philip Pullman's magisterial trilogies set in a universe that appears, here more than ever, as a energized and slanted version of our own. Establishments are failing, or reorganizing themselves along new and troubling lines. An unseen force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Control is draining from authorities, and accumulating in the halls of theocrats, the treasuries of conglomerates, the hands of mobs. "Something is at work, silently, gradually", says trader Mustafa Bey, keeping a watchful eye on the trade routes from his post in an Aleppo cafe. "Things we thought were stable and strong are weakening and giving way."
Exactly what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the mystery that drives this final volume, which picks up where its predecessor left off. This is, according to many, the author's final foray into the carefully crafted, infinitely beguiling universe he first introduced three decades past, with the release of Northern Lights. It's a realm whose terrain aligns with that of the real world, but whose chronicles diverges and shifts with ours; where the individuals look and think and behave like us, but are accompanied by external spirits, souls in beast form; where the heavens are filled with sorceresses and mythical beasts, but beneath those skies, vehicles are taken and beverages is consumed, and older professors carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the first trilogy, and then revisited as a baby in the first volume, the origin story with which the author began The Book of Dust, is now a mature individual: still distinctly the prickly and determined heroine of the prior volumes, but aged, sadder, more cautious, less certain. This circumscription is heightened by her division from her animal guide, Pan – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which led him to leave her in the first place.
The daemon's resolve to depart in quest of that innocent part of the heroine which she seems to have lost (an quality which he represents as her "imagination"), and her quest to rejoin with him, were the catalysts of the prior book, which saw Lyra undertake a adventurous journey across the continent and into the Caucasus, meeting with wonder and risk on the way. But from the outset, underlying forces were in action, and darker forces at work. The religious council – the religious ruling body, and the author's deliciously chilling embodiment of austere, administrative evil – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. The antagonist – the heroine's family member, who faults her for his sister's death – has positioned himself into the office of leader of the authority's High Council, and is determined on using his fresh power to extend the religion's rule. Another protagonist, who saved baby Lyra to security along a overflowing river as an young boy in La Belle Sauvage, is now an Oxford don with a secondary role in intelligence work: he is assigned to the city to learn more about the antagonist's intentions. And beneath all of this is the mystery surrounding the uncommon and precious essential oil which appears in some way to be the origin of a societal and financial upheaval rippling out from the region. The oil is viewed by some as a marketable commodity, by alternate groups as a scientific or esoteric wonder, and by yet others – the zealous "highland figures" – as a wellspring of darkness; an challenge that must be destroyed. The dilemma of its source, its meaning, and whether it should be removed or protected is escalating in importance.
Similar to His Dark Materials, Lyra's deeds, and her destiny, are shown to be inextricably linked with the fate of the universe
In The Secret Commonwealth, these storylines ran mostly in tandem. In The Rose Field, they come together. Like His Dark Materials, her movements and her destiny are revealed to be deeply woven with the destiny of the world. Her personal mission to reunite with her companion and regain her vision becomes the key struggle in a wider conflict with an oppressive government which, as such regimes often attempt, is seeking to stifle freedom of thinking, creativity and culture: all the personal, resistant ways in which individuals can be free.
The novel opens with the discovery of a collection of curious fissures in the structure of the Earth's atmosphere: gateways that appear to lead to other worlds. A particular portal appears to be the origin of the much debated mystical extract. The church, with its leader at its leadership, classifies these portals as a problem to the institution's beliefs and sets out to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to move from inflexible reason and revert to intuition, yet, her conviction that these places must be defended – that their significance and what they provide is somehow vital – grows. "The substance, or rose oil, or the creativity, or the Rose Field, or whatever we name it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a Blakean conflict between purity and maturity is prepared.
At over six hundred pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the
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