Verwandte Artikel zu The Rose Field (Book of Dust, 3)

The Rose Field (Book of Dust, 3)

Buch 3 von 3: The Book of Dust

Pullman, Philip

 
9780593306642: The Rose Field (Book of Dust, 3)
ISBN 10: 0593306643 ISBN 13: 9780593306642
Verlag: Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

The breathtaking conclusion to Philip Pullman’s landmark new trilogy The Book of Dust! Return to the world of His Dark Materials and discover what fate has in store for Lyra, “one of fantasy’s most indelible heroines” (The New York Times Magazine).

“Pullman’s abilities as a storyteller are stupendous, and on full display.”—The Atlantic

“Tremendously entertaining.”—Slate

Lyra Silvertongue is alone in a city haunted by daemons, searching for her beloved Pan. Malcolm Polstead isn’t far behind, searching for Lyra. And they are both racing toward the desert of Karamakan, following the trail of roses said to hold the secret of Dust.

Their allies and enemies are converging on the mysterious red building at the heart of the desert: Marcel Delamare and the military might of the Magisterium; the radical Men from the Mountains; scientists, scholars, and spies; troops of witches and other people of the air. And awaiting them all is a previously unseen and chilling new threat that will change everything.

The intertwining odysseys of Malcolm and Lyra, their journeys both internal and external, will test their limits and challenge even their most dearly held beliefs.

As ever, Philip Pullman is using the language of fantasy to illuminate our world and to explore the deepest questions of what it means to be alive and awake to all the splendors and horrors around us. The extraordinary novels of The Book of Dust speak powerfully to today’s readers and will take their place alongside the forever-favorites of His Dark Materials.

Look for the entire trilogy of THE BOOK OF DUST:
La Belle Sauvage • The Secret Commonwealth • The Rose Field

And Lyra’s adventures begin in HIS DARK MATERIALS:
The Golden Compass • The Subtle Knife • The Amber Spyglass

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Philip Pullman is one of the most acclaimed writers working today. He is best known for the His Dark Materials trilogy (The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, and The Amber Spyglass), which has been named one of the top 100 novels of all time by Newsweek and one of the all-time greatest novels by Entertainment Weekly. He is also the author of another trilogy set in the same world, The Book of Dust (La Belle Sauvage, The Secret Commonwealth, and The Rose Field) as well as numerous other much-loved novels, a collection of fairy tales, and a volume of essays and speeches on writing. He has won many distinguished prizes, including the Carnegie Medal, the Whitbread (now Costa) Award, Parents’ Choice Gold Awards, and the Astrid Lindgren Memorial Award. Pullman was knighted for services to literature in the New Years Honours 2019. He lives in Oxford, England.

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One

Beings of Another Kind

“But who?” said Lyra. “Who is waiting?”

“Me,” said Nur Huda, “and my dæmon, Jamal, but they won’t—­”

“Is he here? Is your dæmon here?”

“Yes, but they won’t let him—­won’t let me . . .”

Lyra stopped. The moonlight shone full in the younger girl’s face, glistening on the lip she was biting and on the unshed tears in her eyes. All around them were tumbled columns of marble, statues of long-­forgotten queens or gods, some still intact, and walls and arches and colonnades, gleaming brilliantly white where the moon touched them, among jagged shadows of fathomless black where it did not.

“But who are they?” said Lyra.

“Just voices. I don’t know! It’s like a war in here. They fight, and I don’t know why, I don’t know who they are, and I can’t see them. I’m so frightened. Just voices. I can’t see them.”

“And they won’t let you do what? Take your dæmon away, is that it? They’re keeping him prisoner?”

Nur Huda nodded. The movement shook a tear from one eye and she wiped it away with the heel of her hand.

“And how did you know my name?”

“Your dæmon told me. Pan. He said you were coming.”

“Pan? You’ve seen Pan? Where? Is he here?”

Lyra’s eagerness was so sudden and passionate that she didn’t even notice that she’d seized the girl’s arm. Nur Huda pulled away, her eyes wide with alarm.

Lyra let go. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you . . . Only, I’ve been following him all this way, trying to find him, and if he’s not here . . .”

But she’d spoken too quickly, too impatiently. The girl was hungry, and tired, and horribly alone.

She was going to cry, so Lyra hugged her and said, “Let’s sit down. We’re both exhausted and frightened. Just tell me everything that happened to you. I won’t interrupt, I promise.”

They sat on a crumbled shelf of stone surrounding a basin where a fountain had once played. A trickle of water fell from the time-­smudged mask of a satyr; it must have gushed from his mouth when it was built, and the spring that supplied it was still flowing. Nur Huda turned and scooped up a handful of water and sipped it. Lyra did the same. It was ice-­cold and clean, and she drank some more. She had no idea she was so thirsty.

“Where have you come from?” Lyra asked.

“From Baghdad with my family. But we were in a boat and it sank, and when I swam to the shore I found Jamal was gone. I thought he was dead and that meant I was too, and I was very afraid. I was alone for a while. I didn’t know what to do. But then Pan found me asleep on a hill and he guarded me and when I woke up he told me about you and we thought Jamal might have come to this place so we came here. Pan was with me so it didn’t look as if . . . you know.”

“Jamal is your dæmon?”

“Yes.”

“What did Pan say?”

“He said he was looking for something you’d lost.”

“Did he tell you what that was?”

Nur Huda shook her head. “He said he was going ahead of you to find it and keep it safe. To the east, where the roses come from, that’s what he said. But he told me you would come here soon and I would know you because you had no dæmon, like me . . .” Her voice was unsteady.

“And . . . is Jamal here?”

“No. I don’t think so. Something happened. A man came out of the desert and was hiding from a giant bird, and then he saw that Jamal was close by, and snatched him before I could reach him.”

“A man? Was he one of the voices?”

“No. Only a man. He looked like a Scythian, I don’t know, maybe Chorasmian—­”

Lyra blinked with surprise.

Nur Huda noticed, and went on. “I don’t know. He might not be real anyway. He’s only got one eye . . . The bird was hunting him. It was so big, when it flew overhead it darkened the whole sky. I thought maybe the man took Jamal to give him to the bird as a—­as a, you know, when you throw something to a wolf to distract it . . .”

“A decoy?”

“I didn’t know that word. Yes, that. I don’t know, I’m sorry! I’m so frightened . . .”

“And you said it’s like a war here . . . What did you mean? Dæmons fighting other dæmons, something like that?”

“I can’t tell. Only that sometimes the air is full of screams and anger and crying. Probably not dæmons. There are not many dæmons here, really. Only the voices . . .”

“What do they say? What language do they speak?”

“Many languages. They whisper. Sometimes you think it’s insects, maybe crickets, cicadas, and then you hear them say real words . . .”

“When do they speak?”

“You can hear them now.”

Lyra listened. The silence was vast. It was the sort of night when you might hear the planets moving among the stars. She found herself comparing it with the silence in the world of the dead, but that was a closed silence, where nothing was alive, and that world was stale and stuffy, for all its immensity. But the silence in al-­Khan al-­Azraq was open, and not quite silence either. There were little scratches, little susurrations and clicks and rasps, none of them louder than a pinch of sand dropped on the skin of a snare drum, and they all meant . . . nothing. She remembered a night some years before, in Oxford, when she had thought that everything had a meaning, and had seen how she might understand it. But that was before she’d read Gottfried Brande and Simon Talbot, at a time when Pan was still happy with her.

“You can’t hear them?” said Nur Huda.

She spoke tentatively, anxious that Lyra should believe her, and Lyra saw how young the girl was, and how much she’d suffered, and felt how tightly Nur Huda was still gripping her arm.

“Yes, I can a bit, but I don’t know what they’re saying. Is this the best place to listen to them?”

“It’s better in the marketplace. This way.”

They had to clamber over the fallen stones and make their way around the broken walls of a basilica before they came to an open area that did look like a marketplace, a public space to hold meetings: a forum.

The sand underfoot was so fine and white that it might have been newly milled flour. In the center of the forum there was a plinth where a statue had once stood. The statue itself lay in three pieces beside it, toppled by an earthquake, perhaps: a bearded god whose sightless eyes glared up at the moon. Lyra and Nur Huda sat on his muscular chest. There was nothing moving in the forum, not a sign of life anywhere, and everything around was drenched in moonlight and frozen in stillness.

Lyra gradually became more aware of the scratchy little susurrus, the scraping of insect claws, the clicks and rustlings like dry leaves in a porcelain bowl being stirred by a breeze. The girl’s arm pressing against hers, her flesh warm in the cold air, made Lyra realize a little of what their dæmons must be feeling, so bare and vulnerable away from the solid comfort of a human body.

She gathered her breath to say something, but Nur Huda whispered, “Shhh . . .”

Lyra...

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Verlag
Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593306643
ISBN 13 
9780593306642
Einband
Bibliothekseinband
Anzahl der Seiten
672
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Knopf
https://knopfdoubleday.com

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