Goddess of Gotham by Amanda Lees

him, not even to take a bath. It was where she was supposed to be right now, immersed in
the tub Ma had filled for her. Instead, she was here, in Ma’s room, standing before the altar. Holding her breath, she stood before it, feeling her throat tighten and fill. If she could only
call upon the gods to help, they would get her out of here. But she had tried so many times and each time she had failed.
    ‘OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SOHA
    OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SOHA
    OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SOHA . . . ’
    Once again she was chanting, eyes closed, body swaying. Had it worked on the mountainside or not? She couldn’t tell. She had smelt Mamma’s perfume, seen the royal ring on her finger.
And yet Mamma’s touch had felt different, somehow. Colder. Less tender. Of course it would feel different. Mamma was different, for heaven’s sake. Caught halfway between two
states. No longer the Mamma she once was.
    Kumari opened her eyes again. The room remained unchanged. No divine presence cast its light upon the heaps of clothes. No holy wind stirred up the dusty air. She was quite alone.
    ‘Help me, Mamma,’ she whispered, fingering the portrait in her pocket. There was no answering murmur.
    Sinking to her knees, Kumari rested her head against the table. Her cheek rubbed on the golden cloth, ruffling it up. As it did so, she spotted something poking out from underneath, the edge of
a wooden chest from which blue satin spilled. She pulled at the satin, revealing a cloak lined in deeper blue, an indigo softness scattered with silver stars that matched a glittering moon on the
front. Kumari stroked the silky fabric, sensing the power steeped in every fibre. As she wrapped the cloak around her, a feathered stick fell from its folds.
    Kumari raised it in the air, swishing it backwards and forwards. It made a satisfying sound. She could do some damage with this.
    ‘Hey! Careful with that!’ said a voice from behind.
    That static filled her ears again, like a radio seeking the right station. Kumari whirled round to see Ma standing by the door.
    ‘You be careful,’ Ma repeated. ‘That’s no ordinary feather duster. And the thing you’re wearing, that’s my ritual cloak. You don’t want to mess with
that.’
    The static cleared; Ma’s words began to coalesce and make sense.
    ‘S-sorry,’ stuttered Kumari.
    Ma’s eyes bulged like a bullfrog’s. ‘Say what? You speak English?’
    She advanced upon Kumari, seizing her by the shoulders.
    ‘Come on,’ she commanded. ‘Say something else.’
    Kumari gazed at Ma’s mouth, marvelling at the sounds it made. She was still tuning in to this language. Unpractised as she was in the divine arts, Kumari was a goddess, nonetheless. The
Gift of Tongues was her birthright. But understanding was one thing. It was much harder to get the words out. She thought for a moment then a smile broke across her face. She remembered something
from the talking box, from the yellow boy.
    ‘Eat my shorts,’ she said.
    Ma threw back her head and guffawed.
    ‘You are one of a kind, girl!’
    Gently, she freed the feather duster from Kumari’s fingers and unwound the cloak from her shoulders.
    ‘You don’t want to go playing with things you don’t understand.’
    In response, Kumari raised her right hand and extended her little finger. In one swift, chopping motion she sliced the feather duster’s handle in half. It was a simple trick, part magic,
part martial art. Ma let out a yelp.
    ‘That’s my hoodoo duster you broke!’
    Kumari took the two halves, pursed her lips and blew upon them. She handed the duster to Ma. It was back in one piece.
    Ma’s eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling.
    ‘You some kind of witch, girl?’
    Kumari smiled and shook her head.
    ‘I . . . goddess,’ she said.
    ‘Yeah, goddess. Right.’
    Ma was still staring at the duster, trying to figure it out. She was not to know that it was just about Kumari’s only trick. Every other charm she tried was so far doomed to