Jón Gnarr - The Indian

I hit the tractor until the staff cracks.

— Have you lost your wits, boy?

— Shut up, you creepy scumbag!

I throw the staff down and run down towards the farm. He comes driving after me. But he can’t get out of the tractor without his staff.

Laufey’s in the kitchen. She turns around when I arrive.

— What’s happening?

I scream and jump on her and pull her hair. I pull her down by the hair. She cries out.

— I hate you! I scream.

She has a necklace. I rip it off her and throw it away. I want to ruin everything they love.

I jump to my feet, grab the crockery, and throw it to the floor so that it breaks. Broken glass shatters across the kitchen.

— What’s going on? the old lady calls from the living room.

— Shut up, you disgusting crone!

I’m leaving. I run out. I’m going to go to the nearby town, Húsavík. From there, I’m going to get home.

I run across the hayfield. I’m blinded by tears. I get tangled up in the barbed wire fence and prick myself bloody. I don’t care. I want to cut myself with a knife. I want to go deep inside and cut away whatever it is that makes me so bad far down inside. It’s as if there is a cat inside me, scratching away from within. I hate everyone. I hate these people. I hate these sheep. I hate my parents for sending me here.

Skúli comes after me in the Land Rover. There’s nowhere to go. I’m exhausted, too. My chest burns. I can barely breathe. I’m expecting someone to come. I’m going to go somewhere and never come back. If he tries to grab me, I’ll bite him. But he doesn’t try to grab me. He stops the car and rolls down the window.

— Come on, buddy.

His voice is calm. He isn’t angry.

— I want go to home, I stammer out between sobs.

— Yes, I can see that. But why don’t you first come and pull yourself together?

I sit in the car. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know which direction to head. I can’t find my way. Skúli doesn’t speak; he just drives off.

They are all out in the farmyard. I sit inside the car. Skúli talks to them.

— What was that all about?

— He started raving all of a sudden, says the farmer.

— He came into the kitchen and attacked Laufey and broke and smashed things, adds his wife.

— He’s not right in the head.

— And I’m guessing you didn’t say anything to provoke him, says Skúli.

It’s all stuck, inside my head. I don’t remember what happened. I don’t know what to do. I wish I were in my room. I’m cold. Even though it’s sunny outside. I want to take a bath and sleep. I want to lie on the ground and be left alone, or go inside the giant thumb, further, further down, in through the heart and out the other side.

They take me into the barn. I cannot enter the house until I’ve calmed down. The old woman locks the door.

— You sit here and think about what you’ve done.

There are windows in the barn far up in the rafters. I take all the rakes I can find and break them. I take the shafts and heads and throw them at the windowpanes. They shatter. When I’m done, I lie in the hay and cry until I fall asleep.

Nobody says anything. Life goes on as usual. They’ve reached the conclusion that I am a useless, lazy, good-for-nothing. They leave me in peace. I don’t know if they’ve called Mom. I don’t care; she wouldn’t do anything anyway.

No one cares about me.

After that, I always keep my pocket full of stones I’ve found in the farmyard. I choose round, heavy stones. I’ve declared war on the sheep. I hate them. Why are they always sneaking into the field? If I see them there, I try to stone them with rocks. I try to scare them from coming into the field. I don’t hesitate to stone the lambs if I get close enough. That will teach those bastard ewes to play about in the hayfield.

Once, I found one that was trying to get through the fence. She was shit-scared when she saw me. I managed to kick her in the stomach as she was trampling away. I felt good about that. Now she thinks twice before she tries to sneak back into my hayfield. If she does, I’ll kill her and cut off her head and set it on a pole so the others can see it, and the sheep will be afraid.

I’ve also got a stick like Hjalti has in Anna from Stóruborg. It’s a rake shaft. I use it to jump over things just like Hjalti did. I get quickly around; what’s more, I can even jump over ditches. Sometimes when I’m chasing sheep, I beat them with the stick.

Fucking ewes. They’re stupid and disgusting and dirty. I hate them more than anything else in the world.

I hate the people on the farm, except Erna. But she’s still one of them. They’re all horrible. I hate my mom and dad too. I hate them for not caring about me. But most of all I hate the sheep. They’re always mocking me. This is all their fault. They sneak onto the farm and hide from me, making me run all over the place. They absolutely know what they are doing.

I smack the cows with a whip. If they’re being difficult, won’t come from or go to their stall, they get a warning: I give them a sharp tap. If they don’t listen, I smack them three times hard. I make them run when I drive them in the morning. They must obey me and do as I say. Otherwise, I’ll beat them.

Snow White is my favorite cow. She is the most intelligent of them. She is always good and never fusses. Sometimes I beat her with the whip for no reason, just because she’s there. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just evil. I want to hurt her. I want her to feel like I do.

Sometimes I feel bad that I’ve hurt Snow White so much. I sneak back into the barn and ask her to forgive me. And she always does. Sometimes I cry and hug her around her neck. And then she stands completely still. If she had hands, I’m sure she would hug me back. She knows how awful I feel inside. She understands what it feels like when I hit her with the whip. Snow White is my only friend.

I’m evil. Evil breeds inside me. I feel disgusting. My face is disgusting. My body is disgusting. I have ugly hands and I bite my nails. My voice is disgusting, too. I don’t want to talk. I can’t look at my face in the mirror. I try to avoid seeing it. When I brush my teeth, I look down at the floor. I hate myself. I hate everyone

[…] Jón Gunnar is of reasonably normal size for his age, well-proportioned, but a little peculiar in appearance; his eyes rather deep-set, somewhat heterotropic, his coordination seems a bit awkward.

(National Hospital, Psychiatric Ward,

Children’s Hospital Trust, 02/04/1972)

[…] The boy has light red hair close cut on top, a freckled face and is stocky. It’s sunny and a pleasant temperature on the days he comes here, but on every occasion he’s always dressed up, wearing purple clothes and a coat — and he always has a cold.

(National Hospital, Psychiatric Ward,

Children’s Hospital Trust, 09/05/1972)

[…] Jón is 5 years old, with red hair, close-cropped-an old-fashioned style. His eyes are large, light blue and somewhat dull. His eyelashes and eyebrows are white. He is well dressed, in his Sunday best.

(National Hospital, Psychiatric Ward,

Children’s Hospital Trust, 07/03/1973)