When Peacocks Attack!

Originally published March 8, 1996, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1164

So we went to Disney World again.

With New York subjected to more snow jobs than an armada of Rush Limbaughs could present—exacerbated by my extended stays in Montreal for Space Cases—my family needed some relief.

In recent weeks, 4-year-old Ariel had even taken to wailing, “My friends at Disney World miss me.” This summoned up mental pictures of Mickey standing forlornly at the front gate from morning till night, informing the rest of the disappointed characters, “Well, another day without Ariel. What’s the point of living?”
We made reservations for the weekend of Feb. 8—a four-day, three-night excursion that was going to have a bit of a twist to it this time. You see, that weekend marked the debut of The Disney Institute.

To quote the brochure: “The Disney Institute is a unique resort with over 80 different programs to expand your mind and challenge your body.” Basically, it’s a school, housed in several sections of the massive Disney World complex. Classes are one- to three-day affairs ranging from topics you would expect (“Create an Animated Character” and “The Voices of Disney”) to those you wouldn’t expect (“Tennis Aerobics” and “Rock Climbing”) to the vaguely bizarre (“Hooked on Hydroponics” and “Water Walking”—for the would-be messiahs out there, I guess). There was even a class about comic book writing, although it was limited to teenagers. Pity. I might have learned something.

There would also be time for the more traditional concepts of Disney World, such as The Magic Kingdom. Taking Ariel to Disney World and then not seeing Mickey was simply not an option. Still, the concept of a vacation that might include homework didn’t seem terribly promising to me. Nevertheless, that weekend found us winging our way to Florida with remarkably low-priced tickets on Delta.

We were staying at what was called The Treehouse Villas. These were individual “houses” accessible via a high staircase extending from a front deck: three bedrooms, kitchen, living room. We checked in and, as we unpacked, Shana and Jenny (ages 14 and 11, for those who don’t recall) explored the immediate area.

They encountered a Disney groundskeeper, and he said, “By the way, have you run into any peacocks yet?”

“No.”

“Well—don’t annoy them,” he warned.

Shana and Jenny returned to the treehouse and mentioned the odd conversation about the peacocks. And then, almost as if on cue, we saw one heading in the general direction of the treehouse.

It was a male with his gorgeous, spectacular tail spread wide.

And—it had a friend.

And another friend. And another.

These were big dámņëd birds, six in all. And they were moving in two-by-two formation.

We stepped out onto the porch to look down at them, secure in the knowledge that we were way up here and they were way down there.

The peacocks looked at each other for a moment, as if planning a quick strategy. Then four broke off, leaving two at the bottom of the long stairway, while the quartet moved around to another side of the treehouse as if endeavoring to outflank us. And the remaining two peacocks—started up the stairs. Large, taloned feet clacked on the wooden stairs. Their beaks were sharp and daunting.

“Uh oh,” I muttered under my breath, suddenly feeling like Tippi Hedren. The girls, for their part, didn’t mutter. They literally shrieked. This noise seemed to disturb the peacocks, and they increased their pace up the steps.

Quickly, we retreated into the treehouse, slamming the door just as the two peacocks made it to the deck. As if flashing on The Birds was insufficient, I also started thinking about Jurassic Park. You know, the line where they say, “We’re fine as long as they don’t figure out how to open doors.” As the birds stood just outside, examining the door, I locked it.

The girls shrieked again. We had a back balcony with a big glass door. Pressed against the door, like humans at a zoo, were four more peacocks.

Even as we saw them staring in at us, putting their faces right up to the glass, we heard clacking and clattering from overhead. At least one more peacock had shown up and was rooting around on the roof.

“We’re going to die!” the two older girls wailed. Ariel kept repeating, “They’re beautiful birds!” Over and over again, her new mantra.

I picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. The peacocks, apparently having failed to anticipate this move, had neglected to bring along wire cutters to thwart our strategy.

The Disney Institute efficiently answered after about 27 rings. “Disney Institute, this is Chris,” came a chipper voice. (I think her name was Chris. I wasn’t completely focused on names at the moment.)

Trying to keep my voice casual, I said, “I was wondering. We seem to be surrounded by peacocks. Should I be concerned about this?”

“Oh, there shouldn’t be a problem,” she assured me. “We’ve never had any difficulties with them before. I mean, they are wild peacocks, but we haven’t had any complaints about them.”

“So I shouldn’t be concerned that they came up the front steps and are standing outside the door.”

Chris paused. I thought I heard a distinct flicker of concern in her voice. “They came to the front door?”

“That’s correct.”

“Hmm. They’ve never done that before.”

“Oh goody. A precedent. There’re two at the front door, four”—I saw another drop down from nowhere—”five,” I amended, “on the balcony, and possibly one on the roof. To be honest, I’m not wild about the way they’re looking at us.” Tourists Under Glass. The irony was not encouraging.

“I can send someone over,” she said.

I was trying to imagine who in God’s name they’d dispatch to deal with this problem. A veteran Australian hunter? Quint? Some veteran of previous peacock wars? More likely some kid from the front desk, sent out to deal with an uprising among the local fauna. And I was supposed to cower in my treehouse awaiting rescue? It didn’t sound cool, somehow.

“Don’t worry about. I’ll take care of it,” I said.

I gathered my family in a tight little knot behind me and peered out through the glass next to the front door. The peacocks on the front deck were still there, but a few feet back. Shana and Jenny made Herculean efforts to curb their shrieking. We stepped out onto the front deck. The peacocks watched us curiously. I gripped the camera bag, which had a decent heft to it.

I considered shouting, “I’ve killed plenty peacocks before! Peacocks, swans, pelicans, you name it! So don’t mess with me!” But they might not have taken it in the right spirit. So instead I just smiled grimly and said, “Hi, don’t mind us. We’re going to the car now.”

We started forward en masse, and the peacocks backed up. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and up to make sure there wasn’t still one on the roof poised for attack. Nothing there. That was probably the one that had joined the others on the back balcony.

We advanced and the peacocks benignly continued to give way. We got all the way down the steps and then the family bolted for the car. I brought up the rear, covering our retreat and making sure there was no sudden last-minute bird-of-paradise onslaught.

Nothing.

They stayed grouped around the treehouse as we leaped into our rental car and motored off toward theoretical fun and frolic in the Magic Kingdom.

Perhaps they felt that pursuit wasn’t necessary, because they had made their point.

Beware, beware the dark forces that await you near Treehouse #422 at The Disney Institute. And proceed at your own risk—for you may encounter fowl play.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)