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Tings are collapsing in the final volume of Pullman's latest trilogy, the second of Philip Pullman's masterful trilogies set in a world that manifests, now more than ever, as a charged and skewed version of our own. Institutions are failing, or reorganizing themselves along novel and disturbing lines. An unseen force "is ruining the air and the seasons"; simultaneously, "money's going bad, and no one knows why". Authority is draining from states, and gathering in the chambers of theocrats, the vaults of conglomerates, the control of mobs. "An element is at work, stealthily, very subtly", says trader a merchant figure, keeping a observant eye on the ancient paths from his seat in an Aleppo cafe. "Elements we thought were secure and solid are weakening and giving way."

Core Enigma and Lyra's Journey

Exactly what that force might be, and ways to oppose it, is the question that drives The Rose Field, which continues where the previous book concluded. This is, reportedly, the author's final foray into the carefully crafted, infinitely beguiling world he first introduced 30 years ago, with the launch of Northern Lights. It's a domain whose geography maps on to that of this world, but whose past veers and changes with ours; where the people appear and reason and act like us, but are accompanied by animal souls, essences in creature form; where the heavens are teeming with enchantresses and legendary creatures, but below, buses are ridden and tea is drunk, and older academics carry luxury shopping bags. Our heroine, whom we first met as a child in the original trilogy, and then revisited as a toddler in the prequel, the prequel with which the author began this trilogy, is now a mature individual: still recognisably the sharp and determined protagonist of the prior volumes, but aged, sadder, warier, less sure. This limitation is intensified by her split from her animal guide, her daemon – but it was also, ironically, the trigger which made him desert her in the first place.

Interwoven Plots

The daemon's resolve to go off in quest of that childlike part of Lyra which she seems to have lost (an trait which he represents as her "imagination"), and her quest to reunite with him, were the incitements of The Secret Commonwealth, which chronicled the protagonist undertake a picaresque journey across Europe and into the mountain region, meeting with amazement and peril on the way. But from the beginning, profound shifts were in motion, and darker forces at work. The religious council – the religious governing authority, and the author's brilliantly sinister incarnation of rigid, bureaucratic wickedness – is under new leadership, and flexing its muscles. Marcel Delamare – Lyra's relative, who holds responsible her for his sibling's death – has positioned himself into the office of head of the church's High Council, and is determined on using his fresh power to broaden the institution's control. Another protagonist, who rescued young Lyra to security along a swollen Thames as an child in the prequel, is now an university scholar with a additional duty in espionage: he is sent to a key location to learn more about Delamare's plans. And behind all of this is the mystery surrounding the scarce and valuable rose oil which seems somehow to be the source of a social and financial upheaval emanating out from Central Asia. The oil is viewed by various factions as a commercial good, by alternate groups as a research-based or spiritual phenomenon, and by others still – the fanatical "mountain dwellers" – as a wellspring of evil; an insult that must be destroyed. The dilemma of its origins, its meaning, and whether it should be eliminated or preserved is becoming urgent.

Like the original trilogy, Lyra's actions, and her future, are revealed to be inseparably linked with the fate of the world

In the previous volume, these narratives ran mostly in side by side. In the conclusion, they come together. Similar to His Dark Materials, the protagonist's choices and her fate are shown to be inextricably woven with the destiny of the universe. Her individual quest to reconnect with her daemon and recover her vision becomes the primary battleground in a wider battle with an oppressive regime which, as such regimes often attempt, is striving to stifle autonomy of reason, creativity and expression: all the internal, rebellious ways in which humans can be liberated.

Atmospheric Fissures and Philosophical Struggles

The novel begins with the finding of a collection of strange openings in the makeup of the world's air: gateways that look to lead to alternate realities. A particular opening appears to be the source of the much debated botanical substance. The authority, with Delamare at its head, classifies these openings as a challenge to the institution's beliefs and sets out to eliminate them. As our protagonist begins to turn away from inflexible rationalism and revert to intuition, however, her conviction that these locations must be defended – that their significance and their value is somehow crucial – increases. "The substance, or the substance, or the imagination, or the botanical realm, or no matter what we name it," she says, "we require it." The scene for a poetic struggle between naivety and knowledge is established.

Narrative Pacing and Personal Evolution

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