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Things are unraveling in the last installment of The Book of Dust, the next of the author's grand trilogies set in a world that manifests, now more than ever, as a intense and slanted version of our own. Institutions are failing, or restructuring themselves along unfamiliar and disturbing lines. An unseen force "is wrecking the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Control is draining from states, and gathering in the chambers of religious leaders, the treasuries of business empires, the hands of crowds. "Something is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says merchant a trader character, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an city cafe. "Elements we thought were secure and solid are faltering and failing."

Core Enigma and The Protagonist's Path

Precisely what that something might be, and methods to fight it, is the mystery that animates the concluding book, which continues where The Secret Commonwealth ended. This is, according to many, Pullman's final foray into the carefully crafted, endlessly enchanting world he first introduced in the distant past, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose geography maps on to that of the real world, but whose chronicles diverges and shifts with ours; where the individuals look and think and act like us, but are paired by external spirits, essences in animal form; where the heavens are teeming with witches and mythical beasts, but beneath those skies, transports are caught and drinks is drunk, and mature professors carry fancy shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first introduced to as a 12-year-old in the His Dark Materials trilogy, and then revisited as a toddler in La Belle Sauvage, the introductory book with which the author began the series, is now a adult: still recognisably the prickly and tenacious protagonist of the previous installments, but older, melancholic, warier, less sure. This circumscription is amplified by her separation from her soul companion, Pantalaimon – but it was also, ironically, the cause which caused him to abandon her in the first place.

Interwoven Plots

The daemon's resolve to go off in pursuit of that childlike part of Lyra which she appears to have shed (an trait which he represents as her "vision"), and her quest to reconnect with him, were the catalysts of its predecessor, which followed Lyra undertake a wandering voyage across Europe and into the Caucasus, facing with wonder and peril on the way. But from the start, deeper currents were in play, and darker forces at work. The religious council – the church's governing authority, and Pullman's masterfully eerie embodiment of austere, bureaucratic evil – is under fresh command, and asserting its power. Marcel Delamare – Lyra's family member, who faults her for his family member's death – has positioned himself into the role of president of the Magisterium's ruling assembly, and is intent on using his recently acquired influence to extend the religion's rule. Malcolm Polstead, who carried infant Lyra to safety along a flooded Thames as an 11-year-old in the first book, is now an Oxford don with a additional duty in espionage: he is dispatched to a key location to discover more about his plans. And underlying all of this is the enigma surrounding the rare and valuable essential oil which manifests mysteriously to be the cause of a societal and financial upheaval emanating out from that area. The oil is viewed by certain groups as a tradeable product, by alternate groups as a empirical or spiritual wonder, and by yet others – the extremist "mountain dwellers" – as a wellspring of malevolence; an challenge that must be destroyed. The dilemma of its origins, its meaning, and if it should be removed or preserved is escalating in importance.

As in the original trilogy, our protagonist's deeds, and her future, are demonstrated to be inseparably connected with the future of the world

In its predecessor, these plots ran broadly in tandem. In the conclusion, they merge. Like the first trilogy, her choices and her path are unveiled to be inseparably linked with the destiny of the world. Her private quest to reconnect with her daemon and recover her creativity becomes the primary conflict in a wider conflict with an authoritarian government which, as these systems always have, is seeking to stifle independence of reason, creativity and art: all the personal, rebellious ways in which people can be liberated.

Cosmic Openings and Philosophical Struggles

The story opens with the finding of a set of curious fissures in the fabric of the Earth's air: windows that seem to open into other worlds. A particular opening manifests to be the origin of the highly contested botanical substance. The Magisterium, with the antagonist at its leadership, labels these portals as a challenge to the institution's doctrine and aims to eradicate them. As our protagonist begins to shift from strict logic and revert to feeling, yet, her conviction that these places must be defended – that what they stand for and what they provide is mysteriously essential – grows. "The substance, or the extract, or the vision, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we label it," she says, "it is necessary." The scene for a philosophical conflict between purity and experience is established.

Story Tempo and Personal Evolution

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