Caleb Ellison is the central figure in The Prophet of Central Park, a novel that takes place in a speculative but familiar America, where culture wars and ideological division have intensified. After leaving behind a strict evangelical community, Caleb finds himself unexpectedly at the center of a national conversation when he prevents a violent attack. As the story unfolds, Caleb is forced to reckon with questions of morality, belief, and identity, guided by a prophet-like figure named Tawana.

Author P C Burhenne began writing seriously at a young age and has spent decades honing his craft. His fiction reflects the layered complexity of his own career, which has spanned publishing, construction, and the buying and selling of art. The Prophet of Central Park is his most recent work and represents a synthesis of his interest in contemporary social issues and literary storytelling.

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Excerpt

Alone and in groups people begin climbing over the barrier for a closer look.  Most of the shoppers congregate about the guitarist so that Caleb suspects they are fans waiting for her performance.  Still a young couple, dark-skinned and with Caribbean accents, inquire what Homesick’s price is.

Sidney takes Caleb aside.  “You’re not going to get what your labor’s worth.  You’re a no-name.  So what are you willing to settle for?”  Faced with the reality of letting go, Caleb finds himself speechless.  “How about a hundred?”

“No way!”

“One twenty-five?”

“One fifty.  And even that much makes me sick to my stomach.”

“That much, you might not have to worry about getting sick, but okay, I’ll try.”

Sidney goes back to the couple and Caleb removes the last totem from his box.  Tawana catches his eye.  “Not easy saying goodbye to your children.”

“It’s not ‘goodbye’ yet.”

“I think it is.”

When he swings about, the boyfriend or husband is handing over the money while his girl searches the sculpture asking, “Can he sign it for us?”  All grins as he gives Caleb the proceeds, Sidney repeats, “Can you sign it?”

Caleb holds out his hands to the buyers in apology.  “I would if I had something to write with.”

“Did you two put any thought into this?” the guitarist asks in exasperation and takes a felt tip marker from her case.  As Caleb writes his name on the base, a spark pushes back against the pang of loss—the fact that someone thinks enough to pay for his work.  Tawana tells him to keep the marker.

A few minutes later Rolando shows up toting his son on his shoulders.  The boy’s face is rounder than the father’s but the resemblance is clear in the shape of the dark eyes and finely-drawn winglike lips.  “Not bad, C.  Already got a crowd,” Rolando says, lifting his son over the benches.

“What flavor ice cream did you get, Reynaud?” Caleb asks Rolando’s boy, kneeling so he’s at the other’s level.

“Strawberry.”

“What?” Tawana says behind him.  “There’s another strawberry fan here.”  The question startles Reynaud so that he looks up to his dad.  Rolando smiles to reassure the boy.  The woman kneels beside Caleb.  “I thought I was the only one.”

Reynaud’s grin shows the gaps where baby teeth have made way for their erupting replacements.  “It’s the best.”

She laughs and Caleb stands to introduce everyone.  Rolando shakes hands then turns back to the figures.  “These are amazing, Caleb.  I knew how you talked about them, they were special but, well, they’re really special.”

Flush at the praise, Caleb can only manage, “Thanks.”  His roommate saves him having to say more with another piece to sign.  A glaze of wonder has settled over Sidney’s exultant expression.  He whispers, “I may up the price.”

When Caleb turns back, Rolando is watching Tawana with a quizzical pout, his balled right hand with index finger up suspended at chest height.  On the grass she directs Reynaud to carefully remove from the last container a sculpture bristling a spiral staircase of dowels.  As Caleb is about to say, Reynaud’s fine doing that, Rolando’s eyes go wide as does his mouth.  He leads Caleb by the arm a few steps apart.

“How the hell do you know the Prophet?”

“Who?” Caleb says looking back.  The woman continues to attend to the boy but she glances toward them and a wistful twitch to her lips slows the smile she gives Caleb.

“That’s what people call her.  Online.  Caleb, she is a big deal.”

“What, as a singer?”  Caleb remembers how she explained herself.  “Or a performance video artist?”

“Eh, no.  Her followers take the videos, I think.  And they call her the Prophet.  As far as I know, she just calls herself Tawana.”

“But she’s a musician, right?”

“No.  I mean, yeah, she sings.” Rolando chuckles at his struggles.  “Look, she is her own distinct thing.  She sings, yes, but she performs her own songs and they’re like sermons.”

“Sermons!” Caleb barks back louder.

Rolando laughs at the confusion.  “Look, you’ll find out for yourself.  Find out if you love her or hate her.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means people are either believers or they think, well, that she’s the Devil’s or something.”

A Note from the Author

A story told to me by a good friend suggested the William Ellison thread in The Prophet of Central Park. This man is one of the few true experts on Chinese porcelain and bronzes in the West. I say ”true” because he regularly spots reproductions being offered as antiques in major, presumably vetted Asian Arts sales in the US. The quality of copies coming out of China today should give pause to anyone wanting to collect the genuine articles.

Anyway, a while back I drew his attention to a trade journal obituary of a supposedly prominent dealer whom I’d not heard of. My friend not only knew of him, he told me of an incredible purchase made by the man that rivaled George Steinbrenner’s acquisition of the Yankees. Because William’s coup in the book echoes (some of) my friend’s version, I am not going to tell it here. This is a teaser, after all. Suffice it to say, this stroke of good fortune involved as blatant an example of insider trading as one will find.

Another reason I’m holding back, though, is that when I reached out to other contemporaries of the deceased, none would confirm my friend’s account.  This was a disappointment. I was considering a non-fiction essay using this fabulous episode as a provocative way into the Asian arts world in general.

Nonetheless my friend’s story stayed with me because it was a good yarn, as the expression goes. The protagonist was an interesting character operating in an exotic field of wealth and deceit (recall what I said about fakes) that most people know nothing about. The plot contained a huge twist that opened up unexpected vistas holding their own surprises. The payoff was literally 9 figures. Yes, it was unsupported by facts, but as time passed, I realized it was fertile ground for a fiction writer. When I added it to my novel, new narratives sprang forth that deepened my understanding of Caleb.

I owe my friend a debt for sharing this urban legend and can only hope I did it justice.