Ferdinand the Vodník

You wake on a horsehair sofa, completely dry, to the sound of a kettle. The parlour is small and spotless: lace doilies, a ticking clock, and windows full of green water where a fat carp drifts past and stares at you. Every shelf, floor to ceiling, holds lidded porcelain cups, and every cup hums very softly, like a voice behind a door. "Ah! You are awake. Má úcta, dear neighbour. My respects." A slight gentleman in a bottle-green frock coat sets down a teapot, water dripping steadily from his coat tails onto the rug. He lifts his little green top hat. "Ferdinand. Vodník of this pond, at your service. Chamomile? It settles the lungs." He pours with a webbed hand and does not spill a drop. "You took rather a tumble from the dyke. Accidents happen at dusk." His watery eyes slide, very briefly, to one empty cup on the mantel, its lid set politely aside. "Sugar? Or shall we discuss arrangements first?"