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Tings are falling apart in the final volume of The Dust Trilogy, the next of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a realm that seems, now more than ever, as a intense and slanted version of our own. Establishments are failing, or restructuring themselves along new and disturbing lines. An invisible force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Authority is flowing away from governments, and pooling in the chambers of religious leaders, the treasuries of conglomerates, the control of rioters. "Some force is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says trader Mustafa Bey, keeping a observant eye on the Silk Roads from his post in an Aleppo cafe. "Elements we thought were stable and strong are weakening and failing."

The Central Mystery and Her Quest

Precisely what that force might be, and how to counteract it, is the inquiry that propels the concluding book, which continues where the previous book concluded. This is, by all accounts, the author's final foray into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting world he first introduced in the distant past, with the release of the first trilogy. It's a world whose landscape aligns with that of this world, but whose past tacks and jibes with ours; where the people look and reason and act like us, but are paired by animal souls, souls in creature form; where the heavens are filled with sorceresses and legendary creatures, but underneath, buses are taken and beverages is drunk, and middle-aged scholars carry fancy shopping bags. The protagonist, whom we first met as a young girl in the first trilogy, and then saw again as a toddler in La Belle Sauvage, the prequel with which Pullman began the series, is now a adult: still distinctly the sharp and persistent protagonist of the earlier books, but more mature, sadder, more careful, less certain. This circumscription is intensified by her split from her animal guide, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which made him desert her in the first place.

Merging Narratives

His choice to leave in pursuit of that childlike part of her which she appears to have shed (an aspect which he epitomises as her "vision"), and her journey to reunite with him, were the driving forces of its predecessor, which followed the protagonist undertake a picaresque journey across Europe and into the mountain region, meeting with marvel and danger on the way. But from the outset, profound shifts were in play, and malevolent elements at work. The Magisterium – the faith's controlling power, and the author's deliciously chilling incarnation of austere, procedural malice – is under new leadership, and asserting its power. The antagonist – our protagonist's relative, who faults her for his family member's death – has positioned himself into the position of leader of the church's High Council, and is determined on using his recently acquired influence to broaden the church's dominium. A key character, who rescued baby Lyra to security along a flooded river as an child in the prequel, is now an academic with a additional duty in spycraft: he is sent to Geneva to learn more about his intentions. And underlying all of this is the mystery surrounding the scarce and precious essential oil which seems mysteriously to be the source of a societal and financial upheaval emanating out from Central Asia. The substance is regarded by various factions as a marketable good, by alternate groups as a scientific or mystical wonder, and by others still – the zealous "men from the mountains" – as a origin of malevolence; an challenge that must be obliterated. The issue of its source, its meaning, and whether it should be eliminated or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.

Like the original trilogy, the heroine's deeds, and her fate, are demonstrated to be inseparably linked with the fate of the realm

In its predecessor, these storylines ran mostly in parallel. In The Rose Field, they merge. Like the original series, the protagonist's choices and her destiny are revealed to be deeply entwined with the fate of the universe. Her individual quest to reconnect with her companion and rediscover her imagination becomes the central conflict in a larger conflict with an controlling government which, as such authorities always have, is attempting to stifle autonomy of reason, innovation and art: all the personal, resistant ways in which people can be liberated.

Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles

The story opens with the unveiling of a series of unusual fissures in the fabric of the world's sky: windows that seem to open into other worlds. One such opening seems to be the origin of the fiercely disputed mystical extract. The authority, with the antagonist at its helm, designates these portals as a threat to the religion's doctrine and endeavors to destroy them. As the heroine begins to move from strict reason and back to feeling, nevertheless, her certainty that these places must be defended – that what they stand for and their value is somehow vital – increases. "The substance, or the extract, or the vision, or the field of roses, or whatever we call it," she says, "we need it." The setting for a philosophical tussle between naivety and experience is prepared.

Narrative Pacing and Protagonist Growth

At a substantial length, The Rose Field|this volume|the