I am a starving orphan left to guard a thorny cornucopia. Hold up the hieratic head and see if the sun will, indeed, make it cast a shadow. Quechua messengers, binding an empire with mnemonic knots. It is called quipu . Like any language it has its subtleties and dialects.
Coloured knots fray into meaning.
From here to Macchu Picchu much has fallen away, uncaught or stolen, lost or rotted. The string is gone, reclaimed by nature. The quipu-camayoc are dead. All that remains are cities earthquakes cannot move. She reads the newspapers and clips the good stuff.