The rune gives the oak a double origin — planted by a giant, felled by a sea-sent hero — and both halves are aetiology. When the sown forests rise everywhere else, “But the oak-tree has not sprouted” [The Kalevala, Rune II]. A giant does what seed alone could not: “From the ocean rose a giant, / Mighty Tursas, tall and hardy”, who burns the water-maidens’ raked hay and “In the leaves he plants an acorn” in the ashes [ibid.]. What grows is cosmic vegetation — “Grows the oak-tree, tall and stately” until it “With its branches hides the sunlight” and the starlight dies in heaven [ibid.]. The remedy rises from the same ocean: a copper-clad manikin, “Long was he as man’s forefinger”, who unfolds into a giant and cuts — “Yields the oak with hundred branches” [ibid.]. Even the wreckage is distributed as fortune: “Whosoe’er a branch has taken, / Has obtained eternal welfare” [ibid.]. Thompson’s single apparatus row for the motif is this rune, and it resolves. The tree of heaven that must be killed so heaven can be seen — planting, overgrowth, felling, and relics — is one of the shelf’s cleanest single-witness arcs.