Pango and the Rainbow Beneath the Earth

(Narration Script — Family Spoken-Word Style)

Beneath the quiet skin of the earth,
where roots whisper and stones seem to dream,
there lived a small pangolin named Pango.

He was covered in scales — smooth and shiny —
each one fitting perfectly with the next,
like a suit of gentle armor.

He loved how round he could curl,
how safe it felt inside that perfect little ball.
When shadows moved, or the ground rumbled,
he would fold into himself, shut his eyes,
and wait for silence to return.

To Pango, stillness was safety.
Stillness was beauty.

He lived in tunnels deep below,
where soft soil pressed against his sides
and time moved slowly.

Above him, the world was full of sound —
frogs singing, birds calling, rain falling —
but Pango stayed in his dark peace,
untouched and unchanged.

He told himself,
“If I stay hidden, nothing can hurt me.”
But what he didn’t realize was that
when nothing can reach you…
love can’t reach you either.

Sometimes, through the soil, faint voices traveled down —
tiny and trembling.
A frog croaked for warmth.
An ant whispered that her home had washed away.
A worm asked the sky for rain.

Pango heard them all.
And each time, he pressed his scales tighter and thought,
“I’m not made to help. I’m made to survive.”

One afternoon, while digging through loose earth,
Pango felt a sudden sting.
A sharp rock caught one of his scales
and snapped it clean off.

He froze.
The little piece fell beside him,
shining weakly in the dim light.

Pango stared at it in shock —
his perfect armor… broken.
He turned away quickly, pretending not to notice
the empty patch on his back.

But that night, as he tried to sleep,
he felt the cool air brush against his bare skin.
It made him feel exposed, small,
and somehow… wrong.

He whispered into the dirt,
“I’m not beautiful anymore.”

When morning came, he noticed something strange.
The same little frog whose cry he had heard before
was curled up beneath the fallen scale.
It was dry now, warm, and safe
under that tiny shelter.

When the frog saw him, it croaked softly —
not a cry this time, but a thank you.

Pango blinked.
A strange warmth spread through his chest,
like sunlight in a place that had never seen the sun.
He didn’t understand it… but he liked it.

Days passed.
The rains grew heavier.
The tunnels filled with echoes of need —
a trembling mouse,
a soaked ant,
a cracked bird’s egg lying helpless among the roots.

Each time, Pango hesitated…
then slowly peeled away one of his scales
and laid it beside the creature.

The mouse curled beneath it and slept.
The ant used it as a bridge to cross the flood.
The egg survived the cold night.

And every time, that same warm feeling returned —
a little stronger than before.

But soon, when he looked at his reflection in a puddle,
Pango barely recognized himself.
His armor was uneven, full of bare patches and dull gray pieces.
He looked broken.

He avoided others, keeping to the darkest corners of his tunnels.
When creatures passed by, he hid his back.
He didn’t want anyone to see what he had lost.

Yet at night, when the world grew quiet,
the tunnels filled with tiny sounds — joyful ones.
The frog sang softly.
The ant’s bridge held strong.
The mouse whispered stories to her babies beneath the scale-roof.
The roots hummed with life again.

And those gentle sounds reached Pango’s heart.
The heavy space inside him, where shame used to live,
began to fill with light.

One evening, he wandered to an underground pool,
where moonlight slipped through a crack above
and spilled across the water.

He leaned over and gasped.

Where his old gray scales had once been,
new ones had grown — shimmering with color.
Blue like the sky he had never seen.
Green like moss after rain.
Gold like the morning sun spilling through the trees.

They glowed faintly, and when he moved, they rippled —
waves of soft light dancing over the walls.

He had never seen anything so beautiful.
He didn’t feel ugly anymore.
He didn’t feel perfect either.
He felt alive.

As Pango walked through the tunnels,
the glow from his scales lit the way.
The stones seemed warmer beneath his feet.
The roots shimmered softly, as if smiling.

Tiny creatures followed him,
drawn to the gentle light that moved through the dark.
The frog hopped beside him.
The ant waved her feelers.
The little mouse squeaked a cheerful tune.

The earth’s heartbeat pulsed around them —
slow, deep, kind.

And in that moment, Pango finally understood.
He whispered,
“Maybe beauty isn’t what we keep.
Maybe it’s what we give away.”

From that day on, Pango no longer curled up when he was afraid.
He no longer hid when someone called for help.
Instead, he opened himself,
sharing the warmth that now shimmered through every colored scale.

The tunnels changed.
No longer dark, no longer cold —
they became rivers of color and gentle sound.

His friends began to call him “The Rainbow of the Earth.”

One night, Pango climbed to the surface for the first time.
The moon hung above him, round and silver,
lighting the world in soft white glow.

He stood on a small hill,
feeling the wind brush against his face.

The moonlight touched his scales,
and suddenly the colors burst into life —
blue, green, gold, rose —
scattering tiny sparks across the land.

Each leaf glowed for a moment,
each puddle shimmered,
each sleeping creature seemed wrapped in light.

It looked as if the sky had fallen to rest on the soil.

Pango stood there quietly, watching the world breathe.
For the first time, he felt completely at peace.

He realized that what he had feared losing
had never truly left him.
Each scale he gave away had planted light somewhere else.
And all that light had come back to him —
changed, multiplied, alive.

He looked toward the horizon and whispered,
“Love doesn’t leave you emptier when you give it away.
It fills you with colors you never knew you had.”

Now, when the forest sleeps
and a faint glow moves beneath the ground,
the creatures say it’s Pango,
wandering softly through his tunnels.

His rainbow scales light the earth from below,
and if you listen closely,
you might hear his whisper carried through the roots —

“Love multiplies when shared.”

Beyond the light of ShareSphere, a real creature walks our world…

About This Being

The story of Pango is inspired by the Chinese Pangolin,
a gentle, secretive mammal wrapped in overlapping scales of keratin.
Like Pango, they curl into a perfect ball when afraid,
trusting stillness to protect them.
Their quiet grace and patient nature
remind us that even in silence, compassion can bloom.

Species: Chinese Pangolin (Manis pentadactyla)
Habitat: Forests and grasslands of China and Southeast Asia.
Conservation Status: Critically Endangered
Why Endangered: Habitat loss and illegal poaching for scales and meat.
Hopeful Note: Conservation groups and sanctuaries across Asia
are protecting pangolins, rescuing those in danger,
and helping these “armored gardeners of the earth”
return to their peaceful, hidden homes.