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Things are unraveling in the final volume of The Book of Dust, the second of Philip Pullman's grand trilogies set in a universe that manifests, now more than ever, as a energized and tilted version of our own. Establishments are weakening, or restructuring themselves along new and disquieting lines. An invisible force "is destroying the air and the seasons"; at the same time, "wealth is decaying, and no one knows why". Power is flowing away from authorities, and accumulating in the halls of theocrats, the vaults of business empires, the hands of rioters. "An element is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says merchant a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the trade routes from his place in an city cafe. "Things we thought were firm and strong are faltering and failing."

The Central Mystery and Lyra's Journey

Just what that element might be, and ways to oppose it, is the question that animates this final volume, which picks up where The Secret Commonwealth ended. This is, according to many, Pullman's final venture into the carefully crafted, deeply captivating universe he first introduced 30 years ago, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a world whose geography aligns with that of the real world, but whose past veers and changes with ours; where the people appear and think and behave like us, but are joined by animal souls, souls in animal form; where the heavens are teeming with sorceresses and gryphons, but below, transports are caught and beverages is drunk, and mature professors carry Harrods shopping bags. Lyra, whom we first met as a child in the first trilogy, and then saw again as a infant in La Belle Sauvage, the origin story with which the author began this trilogy, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the sharp and tenacious protagonist of the prior volumes, but aged, melancholic, warier, less certain. This circumscription is heightened by her split from her daemon, her daemon – but it was also, unexpectedly, the catalyst which led him to leave her in the first place.

Interwoven Plots

Pan's decision to leave in search of that youthful part of the heroine which she seems to have lost (an aspect which he symbolizes as her "vision"), and her journey to rejoin with him, were the driving forces of The Secret Commonwealth, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a picaresque trek across the continent and into the Caucasus, meeting with wonder and danger on the way. But from the start, profound shifts were in play, and sinister powers at work. The religious council – the church's ruling body, and Pullman's deliciously chilling incarnation of strict, administrative wickedness – is under new leadership, and showing its strength. The antagonist – Lyra's uncle, who blames her for his family member's death – has manoeuvred himself into the role of head of the Magisterium's High Council, and is intent on using his fresh power to broaden the religion's rule. Malcolm Polstead, who rescued infant the heroine to security along a flooded Thames as an 11-year-old in the first book, is now an academic with a sideline in espionage: he is dispatched to a key location to discover more about Delamare's plans. And underlying all of this is the enigma surrounding the rare and valuable essential oil which seems mysteriously to be the origin of a societal and economic crisis emanating out from the region. The substance is regarded by certain groups as a marketable commodity, by alternate groups as a research-based or esoteric miracle, and by others still – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a wellspring of darkness; an affront that must be destroyed. The dilemma of its origins, what it stands for, and if it should be removed or preserved is coming rapidly to the fore.

Similar to the original trilogy, our protagonist's deeds, and her fate, are revealed to be inseparably connected with the future of the world

In its predecessor, these plots ran broadly in tandem. In the conclusion, they converge. Like the original series, Lyra's choices and her destiny are unveiled to be inseparably linked with the destiny of the universe. Her private mission to reconnect with her companion and recover her creativity becomes the central conflict in a larger war with an controlling government which, as such authorities always have, is striving to stifle independence of reason, innovation and art: all the inner, defiant ways in which people can be independent.

Dimensional Rifts and Moral Battles

The story opens with the unveiling of a set of strange cracks in the structure of the world's atmosphere: gateways that look to give on to alternate realities. An example of a opening seems to be the origin of the fiercely disputed mystical extract. The authority, with Delamare at its head, labels these openings as a threat to the institution's orthodoxy and aims to eliminate them. As Lyra begins to turn away from rigid reason and return to instinct, yet, her conviction that these locations must be defended – that their significance and what they offer is in some way vital – strengthens. "The substance, or rose oil, or the vision, or the botanical realm, or whatever we call it," she says, "it is necessary." The stage for a Blakean struggle between naivety and experience is prepared.

Plot Rhythm and Personal Evolution

At 640 pages, The Rose Field|this volume|the