Kent it was, his uncle by choice called him this, or failing that boy, and sometimes if his uncle was feeling generous – Bub. He didn't spend time generously. Every moment was precious, leading, pressing forward, and almost always in motion; sleep was something to be done in short, stolen in shadows of the day.
Night time was for travelling.
James was a hard task master; a teacher with the outdoors as a classroom. He taught survival on the run, whilst running.
"Like this boy." He said, James had shown Kent how to throw a punch back on the farm, now he showed how to use a blade in conjunction with his fists, his feet; knee and elbow, head and shoulder. How every action and reaction could bring death.
So it was each night under the cover of darkness.
One early morning they paused by a fast flowing river, a brief respite. A brown bear had the scent of blood in his nostrils, a young deer, but the kill wasn't his.
The bear roared, snorted, confident, the smaller hunter snarled. Shaggy dark hair flecked with red, unkempt and angry.
"The Wolverine." James whispered. Even this was to be a lesson Kent realised.
They watched the two animals face each other. Their fight was short and furious, and it was remarkable to see the squat badger come dog sized animal chase away the far larger predator, the smaller carnivore triumphant, its teeth snapping at the bears heels.
"Y'see bub, everybody loves the underdog, and they take him and make him a hero, and then they hate him."
Eastern mysticism married to Western Mountain Man grit, the boy's sparring partner was the wild itself; the Mountain lion, the Grizzly, and the wolf; and when necessary the bestial dark side of his Sensei. One moment the invisible ninja, the next the berserker beast.
It was glorious, the martial discipline, the isolation all helped him forget his loss, the death of Pa Kent at the hand of Sabretooth.
Everything would have been just fine if it weren't for his nightmares. "Strange things, alien things, a red planet, a red sky, blood, and then the green." Kent gasped. "It hurts Uncle Jimmy. It hurts so much."
"Quiet" James growled through clenched teeth, his calloused hand pressed against the boys mouth stifling the moans of his terror filled dreams.
They'd travelled a long way, weeks on foot, across the open Canadian countryside, and now across the wide border into the United States.
"We're too close to people." James whispered. Fixing his glare into the now open eyes of child beneath.
"M'Okay." Kent insisted, his words muffled by the older man's grip.
James nodded as he sniffed the air. "Illinois, still smells just the same."
As his nightmares grew worse they both slept even less. James with half an eye open, while the boy refused to close his eyes. Together their trek became a ill-tempered adventure, with few words and far more disagreements, often settled physically. Towns were avoided, save to forage for new supplies. James would leave him and visit some backwoods settlement under the cover of darkness, but even that came to an end. In its place the artificial luminance of man made light.
People were really close now, hundred of thousands of people.
"Why here?" Kent asked.
"Because you need to see a Doctor."
"I'm fine."
"When did you last sleep?"
Kent didn't answer, and his silence was answer enough for the older man; the boy knew there was no point in arguing, none of this was natural. So he followed his Uncle James who led the way towards populated rim of Lake Michigan.
Chicago was a city that had risen from the ashes of the great nineteenth century fire. It gave birth to the modern metropolis with towering sky scraping buildings, hung upon skeletons of steel.
On the Gold Coast another legacy of the fire remained, amongst the great houses built by the wealthy and influential stood one of the oldest, constructed in the neo-gothic style so beloved by the Victorians. The Mansion was as more a fortress than a home with castellated walls interrupted by buttressed towers, which rose above the mature trees that created an impenetrable wall of green around the private park that was the castle-folly's gardens and grounds.
From out the stolen row boat under the cover of darkness, the man who had taken the name Olsen, and the boy he called Kent slipped into the water. The shore was but a distant outline. They had spent first hours of darkness pushing south across the lake, by doing so they had avoided the Windy City's urban sprawl. Now together they swam towards it.
Kent followed the older man ashore. The pristine beach gave way to manicured lawns and gardens, peppered by mature trees.
Crouched James sniffed the air, and Kent could see the hairs on the back of his neck quiver. With one hand extended he bid him hold fast. The boy stood still, concentrating on the night. For him it was a world of colour and life, not diminished by the absence of daylight, but rather changed, rendered in the infra-red spectrum, and colours shifted appropriately. With his other hand James tapped the sand, a recognisable beat, the rhythm of Morse-code.
We have arrived James communicated.
For a long silent minutes they waited, silent and still.
Distant the exterior lights of the imposing mansion flickered, and with that apparent signal James leapt forward. "Stick close, and stick to the path." He stated.
His uncle led them to the house along the otherwise invisible route through the vibration sensitive alarm system.
The door into the ground level Garden Room was open. Above the main ground floor and at the other side of the vast house the main entrance facing the city.
"It's been a long time." James growled as he stepped into the light.
"You know what they say about a bad penny." An Englishman replied. Kent did not hesitate to scan this stranger, the tall man was lithe, mid to late thirties, and balding. The dark suit he wore, a butler's uniform, hid the lean muscle beneath the tailored fabric, and a small tattoo of winged dagger on his right forearm. "How the devil are you Logan?" He asked as he shook James' hand.
Kent frowned, thinking another alias?
He was not surprised to hear a familiar heart beat, and with this recognition, he didn't know whether to be angry or glad.
Neither emotion made sense, especially when her presence reminded him of his adoptive father's brutal death.
"And this must be..."
"Kent." James interjected, shaking the boy from his introspection.
Kent pushed his grief back deep inside, and found a polite smile.
His uncle continued. "Jarvis here, he's an old friend and a..."
"Gentlemen's Gentlemen." The Butler in turn interrupted James. He held out his hand to Kent, and the boy took it. He smiled warmly. "Jarvis is Logan's way of reminding me of our past."
"Where's the Doc?" James interrupted the taller man. He sniffed the air as if making a point. "I expected him to be here too."
Silver Fox announced herself, knowing both his uncle and he had detected her presence. "Come come James." She said walking through the open door from deeper inside the house. "If you can't make an actual appointment, you can't really expect..."
His uncle's frown indicated his near constant displeasure, yet her voice banished it. "You smell wonderful darlin'" He smiled. "So where is he?"
The tall butler raised his hands, almost coming between the lovers. "Things have changed Logan." He said in a quiet but firm voice. "And my employer has moved with them, he is husband and a father."
"It couldn't happen to a nicer guy." James ran his hand through his long tussled hair, still wet from the water. "And I mean that sincerely, however it sounded."
"I know you did James." Silver Fox sighed. "He and Martha took their boy to the Movies, they won't be long."
"Can you page him." James asked the butler. "Get him here."
The tall man frowned. "Logan your manners haven't improved any – surely you can wait another half an hour or so?"
"James." Silver Fox said. "Perhaps we should wait just a little longer, and at least let our friends see the end of their film."
The man with many names sighed. "Okay." He said after a moment reflection. "So Mr Pennyworth have you got half decent stogie in this joint? Seeing we have to wait for the Doctor."
"Only the best Cuban." The Butler replied. "And perhaps young mister Kent would care for something to eat?"
"Yes, thank you sir."
"Alfred." The tall man suggested. "Call me Alfred."