Zacariah's Grave Mistake - By Pat van Zijl

Written By: Pat van Zijl

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Pat van Zijl presents "Zacariah's Grave Mistake," a short story that delves into the comedic misadventures of an undertaker named Zachariah van Wyk. Set in the quaint backdrop of a small town, this story combines elements of rivalry, unexpected duties, and the protagonist's personal dilemmas. As part of this prestigious competition, the short story explores themes of honor, misunderstandings, and the humorous side of everyday conflicts.

About the Work

"Zacariah's Grave Mistake" is a delightful exploration of small-town life where misunderstandings and rivalries lead to unforeseen consequences. The story is rich in humor and irony, capturing the reader's attention through its vivid characterization and engaging narrative. The protagonist, Zachariah, finds himself entangled in a series of events that are both amusing and reflective of human nature. The narrative style is both engaging and witty, making it a memorable read.

Zacariah's Grave Mistake

Original Submission by Pat van Zijl

ZACHARIAH’S GRAVE MISTAKE

The sign over the shop read,” Zachariah van Wyk - Undertaker - Taxi for Hire.” The interior of the shop was gloomy in the dusk of a winter’s evening. Coffins of every size stood upright against three walls. The fourth wall was bounded by a counter, behind which hung a proud display of wreaths of artificial flowers, gleaming in the darkness. Zacariah and his wife were closing their business for the day.

“Come on, Bella, hurry up woman.”

“I’ve finished,” she said, giving the wreaths a final flick with a feather duster.

“You go on ahead and get the supper ready. I’ll probably drop in to the pub for a small pick-me-up,” said Zachariah rubbing his hands together in anticipation of several double brandies.

“Just don’t be all night about it,” cautioned his wife.

She left the shop and Zachariah was reaching for the door key when the telephone rang.

“Now who is that ringing at this hour?” he grumbled as he made his way over to the counter where the telephone stood.

“Ja, what is it?” he grunted into the mouthpiece.

“Van Wyk, is that you?”

“Yes, yes it is me.”

“Listen this is the last time I’m warning you,” said the voice, “keep your dog away from my fowls; six dead again today. That’s money lying dead in my yard; good money do you understand? Next time it happens I take action.”

Zachariah bristled as he recognized the voice of Hannes de Bruin, neighbour and enemy. The van Wyks and de Bruins had a vendetta of long standing, dating from the days when Grandfather de Bruin had seduced a very plain van Wyk and refused to marry her. This feud, faithfully sustained by the present generation, added spice to Zachariah’s otherwise placid life.

This evening Zachariah was in no mood to spar verbally. The matter of the dog and the fowls seldom failed to rouse him to heated defence: not that he cared much for the dog - it was a miserable cur - but honour was honour. However this evening he was cold and the congenial atmosphere of the local pub called strongly.

“Ag, you’re talking nonsense.”

He proceeded to put the receiver back onto its cradle but not before a furious sound came rippling along the wires. Zachariah chuckled.

“Take action, my foot!” he snorted and made his way to the door.

Just as he reached it the telephone rang again.

“What now? If that is de Bruin - “

He considered ignoring he instrument, but its strident summons compelled him.

“Yes,” he snapped picking up the phone, prepared to do battle.

“Ah, Zachariah, old man, I’m so glad I caught you before you left. This is Henry Smith. The station has just notified me that a batch of day-old chicks has arrived, two days earlier than I ordered, I might add. I want to hire you to deliver them here in your taxi.”

“What?” exclaimed Zachariah, “Why can’t you fetch them yourself?” he demanded, thinking wistfully of his double brandies.

“I would, old man, I would but the wife’s away for several days with the car and I have a broken arm. Fell off a hayrick, you know. Can’t drive the truck - quite out of the question.”

“I’ll bring them tomorrow,” said Zachariah decisively.

“No, no, old man, that won’t do. The weather forecast predicts frost tonight. They can’t stay at the station and freeze.”

Zachariah could recognize a difficult situation when he encountered one. He was also a philosophical man, so he resigned himself to a long, cold drive with four hundred day-old chicks fortified by only one double brandy. He sighed.

“Very well, I’ll fetch them now.”

“I’m very grateful to you, old man - cheerio,” and Henry Smith rang off.

Zachariah replaced the receiver and uttered another deep sigh. He was, however, somewhat consoled by the thought of the fare he would collect.

“Thirty-five miles there and thirty-five miles back and after hours - not bad!”

Within the hour Zachariah was on his way to Smith’s farm, the cheeping of the chicks vying with the squeaks and rattles of his old taxi.

Shortly after his conversation with Zachariah, Hannes de Bruin was struck down by a heart attack. Swallowing her animosity, as there was no other undertaker to call in, his widow telephoned Mrs van Wyk after Zachariah had left, to make the necessary arrangements. The funeral was to be the next afternoon. The relatives were pressing for early burial so that the will might be read the sooner. Mrs van Wyk pointed out that Zachariah was away. Mrs de Bruin considered this no obstacle, in fact, rather a relief. So Mrs van Wyk went ahead with the arrangements for Hannes de Bruin’s funeral.

Thirty-five miles away, Henry Smith sat before the fire in his living-room, waiting for the sound of Zachariah’s taxi.

“I wonder why the old chap is so long,” he thought, “He should be here by now. Hope he didn’t stop off at the pub and forget to come.”

He rose, went to a window and opened it to listen for the sound of a car’s engine. There was silence in the frosty night. Just then a loud rap sounded on the front door. A voice called.

“Mr Smith, open up, it’s me.”

“I’m coming,” said Henry Smith, making his way to the door as he recognized Zacariah’s voice.

“Ah, there you are, old chap. I didn’t hear you arrive.”

“Of course you didn’t hear me,” growled Zachariah, with a dark look, “I walked the last mile.”

“Great Scot! You must be frozen. Come near the fire. What has happened?”

“Blasted carburettor has packed up. I left the car in the drift.”

“Well, we can’t leave those chicks out in the cold. You must help me bring them to the barn.”

Zachariah took up a truculent stance in front of the fire.

“Not a damn - I’m not going out till I have warmed up.”

“Oh but you must, old chap. I can’t cope by myself,” said Henry, indicating the plaster encasing his broken arm, “you must drive my truck and help load the crates. We have to get those chicks under cover. Soon as that is done, we shall have a couple of snorts and a bite to eat.”

Grumbling all the while, Zachariah allowed himself to be shepherded out into the night. Soon all the chicks were safely in the barn, settling down for the night next to a warm stove. Zachariah and Henry Smith came gratefully back into the comfort of the livingroom.

“Well, old chap, there is nothing we can do about your car tonight. You have no alternative but to spend the night here.”

“Ja, looks like it. I had better ‘phone Bella. I’ll also ‘phone Visser, the mechanic at the garage, and ask him to send out a spare carb. with the bus tomorrow.”

When Zachariah put the call through to his home, Bella van Wyk was out attending to Hannes de Bruin. The maid answered the telephone. Zachariah and the maid had a deep distrust of each other, born of a mutual lack of understanding of each other’s language. Zachariah thought the maid stupid, the maid thought Zachariah overbearing. Thus Zachariah did not attempt to find out where his wife was. He left the briefest message to say that he would return next day. As a result he remained ignorant of Hannes de Bruin’s fate. When he returned to the living-room, Henry Smith handed him a glass with a generous measure of brandy in it.

“Ah!” sighed Zachariah, lowering himself into a comfortable chair close to the fire and stretching out his legs towards the blaze.

Soon the brandy and the warmth had done their work. Zachariah was feeling mellow.

“Have another, old chap,” offered Henry Smith hospitably.

“I don’t mind if I do, if you insist.”

“I hear this fellow in town, de Bruin, has such a good strain of Australorps. Is that so? I might get some chicks from him,” remarked Henry as he handed over the replenished glass.

“Mr Smith,” answered he in a serious manner, “here I am sitting in your house, drinking your liquor - I can only tell you the truth. That de Bruin is a bad lot. Don’t have any dealings with him.”

“Really, Zachariah, why?”

“Well…,” he began, stretching out his hands to the fire to warm them.

He rubbed his hand together, reached for his glass, drank deeply, set down his glass and began on his favourite topic. As the evening wore on the level in the brandy bottle dropped.

‘Henry man, I tell you,” said Zachariah, now on first name terms, “when that de Bruin dies, I’ll dance at his funeral.”

“Go on, Zachariah!”

“I will. What is more, I’ve made a bet on it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’ve bet on it. If he goes before I do, I shall dance at his funeral. Me and Piet Swart made a bet. If I dance at his funeral, he buys me a case of brandy.

“What if you lose, Zachariah?”

“I must buy everyone in the pub two rounds of drinks as well as a case of brandy for Piet. Ag what, that won’t happen.”

Zachariah threw a log onto the fire, as though discarding the very idea along with the wood.

“Talk of dying though,” said Zachariah, “you’re darem a decent chap so I’ll let you into my scheme. You pay four rands a month and at the end of a year, you can have a genuine oak gasket at wholesale price. I’ll even store it till you need it.”

“A what, Zachariah?”

“A beautiful, lined, oak gasket, man.”

“Oh - a casket?”

“Ja, ja a gasket. What about it, Henry, old pal?”

“Now look here, old man, I don’t want to think of dying now - that’s morbid you know.”

“Ag what, a man must look to his future.”

They argued the point desultorily, then, finding the fire burned down and the brandy bottle empty, they wandered off to bed in a haze of bonhomie.

Next day, while Henry Smith busied himself about the farm, Zachariah took it easy, awaiting the arrival of the railway bus from town. The bus arrived in the early afternoon. When Zachariah had repaired his taxi he set off for home, feeling somewhat jaded as a result of too much alcoholic indulgence the previous evening. When he arrived at the shop, he found it closed. Puzzled, he was about to seek his wife at their home, when he saw the funeral procession issuing from the church grounds. Suddenly it was clear why the shop was shut. Someone had died and his wife had made all the arrangements in his absence - reliable woman that. Now Zacariah had never missed a funeral since the inauguration of his business. He felt he owed it to his clients to display some dignified grief. Without enquiring who the corpse might be, Zachariah hastened to his home to don his mourning clothes. That done he arrived at the cemetery just as the minister was intoning the words” … our dear brother departed.” His eyes swept over the relatives. Garbed and swathed in black, they stood with bowed heads at the graveside, quite unrecognizable. The minister’s voice rolled to a sonorous “ Amen”.

Zachariah cleared his throat, composed his face into an expression of solemnity and stepped forward to say a few words. It bothered him not at all that the object of his oratory was unknown to him. After all, one funeral was much like another - just change the gender here and there, the words were the same.

“Dear fellow mourners,” began Zachariah, “we are gathered here to say a last, sad farewell …”

The group at the graveside looked up apprehensively, suspecting the worst.

“What is that rogue up to?” hissed a de Bruin to a cousin, “If he gets up to any monkey business, I’ll donner him.”

Oblivious to their consternation, Zacariah continued,”… loved in his lifetime, he brought joy to those around him.”

Mouths gaped in amazement at his words. He warmed to his task. One grand phrase after another rolled from his lips.

“I, for one, feel deep sorrow at this irreparable loss. Our community is bereft and our lives are the poorer as we weep here today.”

At this point, a lingering, alcohol-induced sentimentality came over him as he let out a sob.

“Who would believe it?” wondered Widow de Bruin, “The old devil must have been fond of Hannes after all.”

The minister, realizing that things were becoming out of hand, hastened to intervene. With a few brisk words he concluded the ceremony. Zachariah then left the cemetery, managing another few sobs for effect as he went. On his way home he was filled with a sense of elation. His performance had been superb. That should set the town talking.

His wife had not yet come home when he arrived. He changed his clothes, then feeling the need to share his success with others and to hear their acclaim, he decided to go to the pub. Outside the door of the pub he paused to ready himself to meet the approbation he felt sure would be his. Assuming an air of modesty, he entered. He was greeted by a sea of grinning faces. The room was filled to capacity, a record crowd, which had come to dispel the gloom of a funeral on a winter’s afternoon. A hush fell over the throng gathered at the bar.

“Ah,” thought Zachariah, pausing in the doorway, “now someone will congratulate me.”

Suddenly the grins disappeared. He gazed around, bewildered. Where was the clamour of approval? A figure detached itself from the group and came toward him. It was Piet Swart. He slapped Zachariah on the shoulder in a familiar manner that Zachariah considered vulgar and distasteful.

“Well, man, pay up. That was an easy bet to win.”

“What do you mean?” queried Zachariah, feeling uneasy.

“Ag, come off it,” said Piet Swart.

“What are you babbling about?” snapped Zachariah annoyed by the sight of Piet’s leering grin.

‘Do you mean to say you don’t know who that was?” Piet’s voice sounded incredulous.

A glimmering of the awful truth caused Zachariah to stutter.

“Wh - wh - who was who?”

Piet’s grin changed into a smirk of astonished delight. He turned to his attentive and expectant audience.

“Shall I tell him?”

The answering roar was deafening, “Yes, tell him. We want our drinks.”

Piet turned to Zachariah in triumph.

“That was Hannes de Bruin’s funeral. Allemagtie, you weeping at Hannes’ funeral!”

Zacariah turned white with shock, then he flushed red. Amid cries of, “pay up, pay up,” he was obliged to tell the barman to serve everyone with two rounds of drinks, give Piet a case of brandy and send the bill to him, Zachariah. Great was the hilarity in the pub that evening but Zachariah slunk home in misery. It was many a long month before he could nerve himself to attend a funeral, let alone visit the pub.

*

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is an esteemed platform celebrating diverse voices in poetry and creative writing. This competition encourages participants to showcase their literary talents and share their unique stories with the world. Known for its commitment to fostering creativity, the competition serves as a catalyst for writers to gain recognition and refine their craft.

We extend our gratitude to Pat van Zijl for sharing "Zacariah's Grave Mistake" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This short story is a remarkable blend of humor and humanity, leaving readers with a lasting impression. We appreciate Pat's contribution and look forward to more of their creative endeavors.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.